


Finding your family

by Kitacular



Series: More than Brothers [11]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal, BDSM, Bondage, Boys In Love, Caning, M/M, Painplay, Spanking, Yes... This one is full of filth as well, updates on saturdays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:53:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitacular/pseuds/Kitacular
Summary: Continuing d'Artagnan's [kinky and gay] journey through Season 1 of The Musketeers. This work covers Episode 8 - The Challenge.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay/d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère/Porthos du Vallon, Athos/His Man Pain, d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: More than Brothers [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/368966
Comments: 18
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read previous works in the series, it would help but I can summarise.
> 
> Athos/d'Artagnan are in an established relationship and after d'Artagnan and Constance's declarations of love in Episode 7 have been experimenting with including Constance.
> 
> Aramis and Porthos are an established Master/slave couple with Aramis firmly on top but very much in love. They use S+M to help Athos deal with his man pain and have done for years but only once since d'Artagnan joined their lives. D'Artagnan is curious but hesitant to join in and still gets jealous at the idea of the three of them together without him.

There was a spring in d'Artagnan's step as he sauntered through the streets the next morning. He felt he was having an out of body experience, unable to believe this much happiness could fit inside one chest.

How was it possible? How could it be that he could have the love of two such wonderful people? Not just their love but their trust, their affection and their acceptance.

He realised he was humming when Athos coughed pointedly but d'Artagnan just laughed.

“I have reason to be joyful,” he said, happily.

“As do I,” Athos said, amused.

D'Artagnan continued to hum, despite Athos' dirty look, as they made their way up to Captain Tréville's office. The stony look the Captain gave them, killed the tune on his lips.

“Captain,” he and Athos said, nodding.

“The Cardinal has seen fit to raise taxes across France. Again,” Tréville said without preamble, his annoyance clear. “You need to go to Toulouse and ease the way. Make it clear that despite the Cardinal signing the documents, as First Minister of France, he signs with the King's hand.”

D'Artagnan could hear how much it pained the Captain to admit this.

“All for the new Navy?” asked Athos unhappily. The King's wish for a Navy had been the Cardinal's reason for stripping Ninon of everything, claiming the Crown needed the funds more than a woman did.

Tréville grunted in disgust.

“Apparently not,” he muttered. “ _Apparently_ we have no reason to complain against the new tax bill and _we_ are the right people to help the common folk understand the need for it as it will be going to fund the _army_.”

Athos snorted, an unusually undignified noise and d'Artagnan raised his eyebrows.

“The Cardinal means to present us as the beneficiary. He is trying to use us to enforce tax collection because he can claim it's funding us,” Athos explained. “Thereby destroying our reputation as the more honourable of the regiments.”

“The Red Guards?” d'Artagnan asked.

“They're being sent out as well but I am expected to send as many men. I am choosing to send the four of you to this particular location. I suspect some unrest in Toulouse and I want it stopped without bloodshed or disruption, which I'm sure the Cardinal's mutts will cause,” Tréville answered, bitterly.

“We'll see to it, Captain,” Athos promised, bowing slightly. “We'll leave at once.”

“You'll need to wait until sunset. Porthos and Aramis are on duty at the palace,” he grunted. “Deblois and his men have already departed and will meet you there.”

Athos nodded, bowed again and turned to leave, d'Artagnan on his heels.

“Tréville seems angry,” d'Artagnan observed.

“The Cardinal continues to make in-roads on the Musketeers. He keeps implying that his position as First Minister means he can control everything when it should be the Minister for War controlling the Army's movements,” Athos explained as they walked down the stairs.

“We don't have a Minister for War during peace time,” d'Artagnan said, understanding now. “So the Cardinal is helpfully filling that void?”

“Yes,” Athos said, striding towards Serge. “Thus Treville's particular anger at the commandeering of his men to fulfil the Cardinal's wishes.”

D'Artagnan nodded, letting the conversation drop as Athos explained their needs to Serge.

  
  


  
  


“So one night with me and you're both leaving the city,” Constance teased as she served them both a quick stew she'd thrown together.

“Most definitely,” Athos agreed. “As our young Gascon told me when we first discussed the idea... Too many legs.”

D'Artagnan laughed.

“More legs, more...” Constance blushed and trailed off, not quite able to believe she'd been about to be so bold.

“Positions?” suggested d'Artagnan, brightly.

Constance playfully hit him on the back of the head and turned back to the pot. She began to pour it carefully into the two cans d'Artagnan had provided.

A comfortable silence fell while the two men ate with gusto and Constance carefully re-filled the cans, sealed them and served her own portion of stew.

It was pleasantly homey in her small kitchen. This was how she'd imagined her life. Cooking for a man she loved. Eating together in the home they shared, laughing together, being comfortable. She glanced at Athos and smiled to herself. Okay. Maybe not just as she imagined. She glanced at the samples of cloth on the chair beside her, samples of her husband's work. Definitely not as she'd imagined. D'Artagnan leaned back in his chair, his hands on his stomach and smiled at her. Perhaps this was as close as she'd get.

“We'll have to be discrete,” she said abruptly. “I am still married, after all.”

“Discretion is something we're familiar with, I assure you,” Athos reminded her.

She laughed a little, surprised at her own naivety. Of course they were going to be discrete. Their element of the relationship was illegal whereas hers was just immoral.

“However much I might want to shout it to the rooftops, I won't,” promised d'Artagnan.

She grinned at him and began to eat her own stew.

“Regretfully we must depart,” Athos said, glancing at the slightly darkened sky.

Constance nodded and jumped to her feet and she smiled when d'Artagnan immediately embraced her, kissing her lightly. Athos stood more slowly but he, too, took her hand and pressed his lips gently to hers.

“The three of us will explore soon,” he murmured and the promise in his voice left her a little weak in the knees.


	2. Chapter 2

Aramis looked positively gleeful when they told him they'd be leaving the city but had, admittedly, shared Athos' frustrations at the Cardinal's use of the Musketeers.

He linked his arm with Porthos as they made their way to the yard and hummed quietly. Athos glared at him from under his hat and d'Artagnan laughed, playfully nudging Athos who finally smiled.

“A shame we can't experiment more with the 'Porthos as an object with no desires' game,” Aramis murmured. “Although one happy side effect is we won't have time for you to go home and take the cords off.”

Porthos stiffened at his side and Aramis laughed loudly, squeezing his arm.

“Maybe will this will have to be less no-person-only-object and more completely-controlled-loved-possession,” Aramis conceded.

Porthos visibly relaxed and Aramis guessed why. It was unlikely they'd be able to maintain Porthos not speaking, not moving and not eating without instruction. Permission, however, was far more feasible and something they'd done in the past without detection.

“Of course this also means you can't go home and get the peg,” Aramis said in a low, low voice. “I know how much you're already missing it, being stretched for me.”

Porthos growled at him and Aramis laughed, stretching out from Porthos in a wide arc, to look at his face better.

As he did so, he bumped into someone who shoved him back, hard enough to make him stumble into Porthos' side.

“Watch it,” a nasal voice said. A voice they all knew and hated.

“Maybe if you weren't so out of shape you'd take up less of the street,” Aramis said dismissively to the three Red Guards glaring at him.

“Maybe if you weren't dancing about in the street and had more discipline you wouldn't be so careless,” another voice said and Captain Trudeau stepped out from behind the three.

“Leave their discipline to me, Captain,” said Athos, stepping up to them.

“You aren't the Captain of the Musketeers,” Trudeau sneered.

“I am the senior officer of these three men and your complaints should come to me. I will thank you not to accost them in the future, nor to criticise them and if your man on the left does not immediately remove his hand from his sword I will remove it for him until **he** learns the discipline required to walk these streets armed,” Athos said sharply, staring the Captain in the eyes.

“I am of equal rank to your Tréville, Athos. You need to learn some respect,” Trudeau said, his eyes narrowing.

“You might bear the same title but you are in no way his equal,” Athos said, his voice calm as ever but every man present heard the icy derision.

The hands of all the Red Guards present flew to their swords but their Captain held his hand out, staying them.

Athos gave a small nod and turned on his heel, his men following. Aramis gave a small bow to the man he'd bumped into as they continued towards the garrison.

  
  


As they mounted up, Athos went to inform Tréville of the altercation and returned to them, shaking his head.

“Athos?” Aramis asked.

“This tension is going to break soon,” Athos muttered. He swung up into his saddle. “It will _not_ be _our_ doing,” he added firmly, staring at each of them meaningfully until he received a silent nod from all.

With that, he led them out of the city into the darkening night.

  
  


  
  


The next two weeks of travelling were hard and fast. Two days into their journey, word reached them on its way to Paris that two of Deblois' men had been killed by the regional Indentant, sent by the Cardinal. All of them felt this blow deeply. The Musketeers were an incredibly tight knit regiment and they all felt the loss of a brother. D'Artagnan, in particular, became more terse and determined the further South they travelled. Stories of burning and razing were coming thick and fast out of Gascony and d'Artagnan still had friends in the area.

When they finally reached Toulouse, there was no sign of the Intendant but there were many sightings of him in the city of Auch, only a few miles West, sitting between their current location and d'Artagnan's home in Lupiac.

“We could just check,” d'Artagnan muttered, without any real conviction.

“The murder of our brothers takes precedence over the Cardinal's petty financial gains,” Athos answered.

“I know but it's... It's my...”

“Home,” Athos murmured.

“Is it?” d'Artagnan asked, turning his head.

The two were sat on watch by a low burning fire, their brothers asleep across the fire, just inside the shadow line.

“Is it not?”

“I don't know. If you'd ask me a few months ago, I would have answered yes with absolute certainty. If you'd asked me a few weeks ago, I would've answered no with some certainty,” d'Artagnan murmured, head turning back to the trees.

“Today?” Athos asked, curiously.

“Gascony will always be in me,” d'Artagnan answered, his fingers in the grass. “I'm finally in Gascony again.”

“And it feels like home?” Athos asked.

“It should, I think.”

Athos let him sit in silence for several minutes but didn't resist when d'Artagnan laced their fingers together.

“I'm missing Paris,” d'Artagnan said finally.

Athos smiled but didn't reply and they remained silent for the rest of their watch.

  
  


  
  


It was in the forest north of Auch, towards Agen, they finally found him. Expecting a group of men, the Musketeers and d'Artagnan tracked for a few days to try and determine watches but realised after only two that the gargantuan man, LeBarge, was travelling alone. Even Porthos was watching him warily.

When they finally had him under arrest, it was Porthos who he was given to and only one man could sleep at a time.

They were exhausted, nerves frayed by the constant sniping and mocking from the arrogant bully when they finally arrived in Paris with a less than warm welcome from the Red Guards. As Athos had predicted, tempers boiled over, with a disastrous end.

  
  


“What happened?” Tréville demanded angrily.

The three Musketeers and d'Artagnan were grouped in front of his desk, Athos having just informed him that a Captain of the Red Guards had been killed as they entered the city at dawn.

“Well Athos just...” d'Artagnan began but trailed off at the tiny shake of the head Aramis gave him.

“Athos just told me, yes,” Tréville said, his voice eerily quiet, as he took a deep breath.

D'Artagnan felt the men around him stiffen slightly and could guess what was coming. While Athos had given them dressings down a few times, his anger came out as icy control. Tréville's, on the other hand...

“Athos just told me that a man you three arrested and you three had bound and under control, that you three brought back to Paris just killed the Captain of the sodding Red Guards!” he said, his voice rising to an ear-splitting shout. “Athos just told me that despite your explicit instructions otherwise, the four of you bloody idiots duelled with them in the street!”

Tréville's shouts continued to grow as he came around his desk to stand in front of his men, Athos and d'Artagnan being in the centre and thus directly in front of the red-faced fury of their own Captain.

“Athos just told me you did all this in front of twenty damn witnesses and even they did vouch for you that doesn't help me because Captain Trudeau is still bloody dead!” he bellowed.

Tréville turned his back on them in disgust, leaning his fists on his desk and there were several seconds of deeply unpleasant silence until d'Artagnan, seemingly unable to stop himself, spoke.

“They provoked us,” he suggested.

“He was their fucking Captain!” roared Tréville.

It took all d'Artagnan had not to step back but he kept himself upright and stared determinedly at Tréville's chest. He had the sense that meeting the man's eyes might be a red flag to a bull and they felt very close to the Captain's breaking point.

“Do you think for one second I don't know that every jibe and taunt they throw at us is returned? Do you think this regiment is innocent in the animosity?” Tréville asked and he began to pace up and down in front of his men. “I am utterly disgusted with the lot of you. Athos, you knew better. You should have insisted on handing over Lebarge in a less crowded area. The rest of you... Get out.”

Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan left Tréville's office without another word and Athos was left alone with the irate Captain.

“I need to get to the King before the Cardinal poisons us against him,” he said quickly. “What happened?”

  
  


  
  


D'Artagnan flopped miserably onto the sofa in Aramis and Porthos' home and dropped his arm over his eyes.

“Don't be so dramatic,” Aramis chided from where he was sat in his chair, Porthos sat comfortably on the floor beside him, cleaning his pistols.

Athos was sat in Porthos' armchair, his journal on his lap, scribbling furiously into it as was his custom after a mission.

“I've never seen him so angry,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

“Ah, it was your first real spanking from the Captain,” Aramis shrugged. “You know full well we aren't responsible for Trudeau's death and so does Tréville really. He was just angry that the pot boileth over with the death of a Red Guard.”

D'Artagnan sat up and looked intently at Aramis.

“He had a point, though. Would we have been any less furious if our own Captain had died?”

“Their structure is not the same as ours. They have several captains. The Cardinal would be the equivalent of their Tréville and I somehow doubt they hold the love for him that we do for our leader,” Aramis explained, smirking.

“So who would our equivalent be?”

“Athos, Deblois, Brujon. Division leaders, essentially,” Aramis answered, calling back to his infantry days. “In the Musketeers we operate in much smaller contingents so the ranks aren't as necessary. There's us, we have a leader and then there's the Captain. If we all had individual ranks based on responsibility, they'd be meaningless as we'd all have the same rank.”

D'Artagnan nodded during his explanation but immediately jumped in when he'd paused.

“So it's equivalent to us seeing Athos killed?”

There was a sudden silence in the room but for the continued scratching of Athos' quill who only looked up when he seemed to realise they were all looking at him.

“In terms of immediate equivalency, I suppose so,” Athos mused. “They're a very very different regiment. You won't find the same sense of brotherhood or, for lack of better word given our own situations, intimacy. Their loyalty, as Aramis implied, is to their status and their pay, not to their leader. While I don't doubt their individual brigades are comrades, even friends, and respect one another... They do not operate as a family, like we do. Our regiment is far superior, both in skill and, more importantly, in soul.”

Athos glanced back down and, dipping his quill, returned to his journal, leaving his friends staring at him in surprise.

“Well there you have it,” Porthos said, shrugging and he, too, returned to his task.

Aramis laughed lightly at d'Artagnan's stunned expression.

“Ah, d'Artagnan. Did you not see us arrest Lebarge not once, but twice? They couldn't even get him four paces without our help,” he said, smiling.

“I understand that,” d'Artagnan said, frowning. “I just think the Captain being so angry has made me wonder if we could have done things differently.”

“And that is why he gets so angry,” Aramis said, kindly. “To make us learn and think better next time. Had those men not been so snide with us on our departure, we may not have been so willing to allow them to fall on their faces and it may not have had such tragic results. His intention is that his fury will remain burnt into our memories the next time an insult is thrown our way.”

“So every mistake...”

“Is met with a verbal spanking to match its severity, yes. This was just the largest you've encountered,” Aramis said, brightly. “You do need to learn when to not interrupt him, though. Sometimes he appreciates many points of view and explanations. Often, he does not.”

“It's the vein,” muttered Porthos and Aramis chuckled.

“Yes. When that big angry vein in his neck starts to stand out and throb... Shut your mouth,” Aramis agreed.

D'Artagnan laughed at this and he relaxed back against the sofa.

“I'm so used to you and Athos being deathly quiet and hiding when you're angry that I think it took me by surprise,” he said, smiling at them.

“Aramis doesn't hide when he's angry,” argued Porthos, setting one pistol down and taking up the other. “He just controls it well. If you look carefully, you know the signs.”

“Oh?” asked d'Artagnan, grinning wider.

“His lips go really thin and if you're in serious, serious trouble, you can almost see him shaking with anger,” Porthos said, eagerly. “He also gets right up in your face.”

“Indeed,” Athos agreed, pausing to re-ink his quill again. “It's easy to forget how tall Aramis is when he's so often beside Porthos. When he's particularly incensed, however, he will stand so close to you that one feels the height of a child under a particularly strict governess.”

Aramis laughed, good-naturedly. He was never one to mind a bit of ribbing, especially when it was true. Having been on the receiving end of it, d'Artagnan knew this all to be absolutely accurate.

“You and Porthos do not hide your anger at all, though,” Aramis said. “Though Porthos takes much longer to rile.”

“Didn't always,” Porthos conceded. “Used to get in lots of fights over stupid things.”

“Then you learned to win them all and now you save it for important things,” d'Artagnan said brightly.

“Like ego,” Aramis murmured quietly and lay a gentle hand on Porthos' head, still covered by his bandanna.

“Bragging rights, yeah,” Porthos admitted, grinning up at Aramis.

“And our d'Artagnan, one the other hand,” Athos said, capping his ink bottle and shaking the book gently to dry the ink. “Gascony will keep his temper burning at this level just as our Captain Tréville's does.”

A small chuckle ran around the room and Aramis glanced at the clock.

“Shall we go out to dine?” he asked and received three murmurs of assent.

“Gascony itself is burning,” d'Artagnan muttered miserably to Athos as the four of them put their boots on.

The older man lay a gentle hand on his shoulder in sympathy. It had been a hard sight for d'Artagnan to see the region he called home in such a state. Lebarge had not been kind and d'Artagnan had known many of the families they found billeted as refugees.

He'd seen this period in most of the Musketeers over the years, especially those who didn't grow up in Paris. A realisation that while leaving your home and your family to become a member of the most elite regiment was a wonderful achievement and much better life than most of those left behind... It still hurt to see those in your old life. In most cases this meant seeing people worse off than you. While being a Musketeer didn't pay all that much, at least you were fed and housed. Seeing your family still toiling on a farm or working their fingers to the bone at a mill was always tough for soldiers. For d'Artagnan it had been all the tougher seeing that actual harm had come to the region and even the hard living the farmers were making had been taken from many of them.


	3. Chapter 3

“How is he?” Aramis asked over his stew.

He and Athos were dining in an inn after a long day training for the recently announced contest.

“Not good. I thought this contest would give him focus away from his grief but his anger is so close to the surface I can almost taste it on him,” Athos answered. “It's something to work on. Where's Porthos?”

“Fishing,” Aramis said, smirking.

Athos shook his head disapprovingly but made no comment. He, himself, had managed to raise the required entrance money pawning one of the last possessions he'd brought with him from his old life, a silk scarf.

“Tréville's asked me to keep an eye on d'Artagnan. I think he sees the rising tide of anger, too.”

“I don't doubt it,” Aramis said. “You think he might over work himself?”

“Indeed. He stormed out of training today when I was goading him.”

“What could you possibly have said to make him leave?” Aramis asked, laughing. “I thought he'd sleep there in anticipation of this tournament now he has permission to join.”

“As did I,” Athos answered. “I'm trying to get him to think with his head and not his heart.”

Aramis watched his friend quietly. It'd been a long time since they'd had time alone together.

“I dug into the Lebarge wound,” Athos admitted.

Aramis nodded, understanding.

“Serge told Porthos Lebarge destroyed the d'Artagnan farm,” he said gently. "What an awful thing."

Athos sighed heavily and nodded.

“That's why our d'Artagnan is so furious. It's distracting him. He needs to keep his eye on his goal and move forwards,” Athos said, frowning.

“If he was already angry about that, why would you mentioning him have bothered him so?” Aramis mused.

“I pushed and told him where he was incarcerated. I goaded him further and told him-”

Aramis lifted an eyebrow as Athos stopped mid-sentence.

“He wouldn't...”

“Wouldn't what?” Aramis asked, eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Athos?” he prompted

“Nothing. See you in the morning,” Athos said suddenly, standing.

He rushed from the public house just as a waitress brought another bottle of wine.

“I suppose I'll be drinking that alone, then,” Aramis said, smiling up at her. “Ah! I take it back!”

Porthos strode in, smiling widely.

“Did you have a nice time?” Aramis asked.

“I did,” Porthos said, sitting beside him. “She's a lovely woman.”

“And did you get your payment?”

Porthos drew a solid gold candle snuffer from inside his doublet and handed it over.

“Ah, excellent. That should get you in, easily.”

“How goes your fishing?” Porthos asked, grinning.

“Would you think bad of me if I kicked a dog?”

Porthos laughed.

“That bad?”

“I had her down to corset and petticoat and I lay her down on the bed,” Aramis said, lowering his voice. “As I knelt one of the cursed things leapt from the floor and sank its teeth into my ankle.”

Porthos laughed again.

“I managed to shake it off but its terrible yapping noise drew the attention of the other two and I found myself calf deep in a brown and white sea of noise,” he said, ignoring Porthos' continued laughter. “By the time she managed to calm the wretched things down the moment was entirely lost and she was checking on the one that bit in case _it_ was hurt. I checked my own flesh and found a tear in my hose and blood around the site. It's not deep, I grant you, but she's swooning over the irritating ball of fluff as if I'd kicked it. Wish I had,” he muttered.

Porthos roared with laughter while Aramis smiled quietly.

“And how far did _you_ have to go?” he asked.

“Oh we just had dinner,” Porthos said, shrugging. “I'm gonna see her again tomorrow, though.”

He glanced at Aramis when the marksman didn't reply.

“Is that alright?”

“Of course!” Aramis said, smiling brightly. “My patroness is not as easily sated so I suspect I'll be occupied the next two evenings at least.”

Porthos grinned at him.

“Do you like her, Porthos?” Aramis asked quietly.

“I 'fink so, yeah,” Porthos mumbled. “Confused about it, though. How did you know?”

Aramis glanced around the room but it was empty enough he was certain they wouldn't be overheard.

“Mi vida,” he murmured. “I know you. I haven't seen that expression on your face about anyone but me before. I wouldn't want for a second you to feel you couldn't experience everything you wish. I know we've spoken of this before but I want to remind you.” He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently when Porthos' gaze dropped. Only when the beautiful brown eyes met his again did Aramis continue.

“What you and I have will forever be a secret. We'll never be able to be honest about what we share, Porthos. I say again, if you wished for a respectable life, a respectable wife, I wouldn't ever wish to hold you back.”

“I love you,” Porthos whispered stubbornly.

“And I love you,” Aramis answered, in an equally soft whisper. “I won't ever leave your side and you won't ever leave my heart but other lives are possible.”

“But how could I... If I moved out...” Porthos began.

“Shh. Shh, mi vida. We have yet to see if more comes of it. For now, enjoy your friend. See where it goes. If you come to love her, too, we will look again,” he said soothingly.

Porthos took a deep breath and nodded, drawing his cards out from his boot. While Aramis had meant every word and had, himself, voiced the concern he was keeping Porthos from a life he deserved, he couldn't stop the stab of jealousy as he saw a small private smile on his lover's face.

Porthos had resumed frowning by the time they made it home.

“Porthos,” Aramis said, quietly.

“Sire,” he replied, sadness in his voice.

“Querido,” Aramis said, smiling. He lifted a hand to Porthos' face, stroking his fingertip over the scar, their year's old signal for him to close his eyes.

“You are the love of my life but this world is not designed for us. I have never and will never love anyone as I love you but the fact remains that I can never take your hand in the street. I can never kiss you when you come off duty. We'll never have children. We'll never walk along the Seine as a family,” Aramis murmured softly, stroking Porthos' cheeks.

“I want you more than any of that,” Porthos protested.

“You've never had that kind of family, mi vida,” Aramis whispered.

He turned, then, leaning himself back into Porthos' arms, which closed around him immediately.

There was silence while Porthos gently undressed Aramis, hanging each removed item of clothing and equipment up. It was a familiar ritual and they were both smiling by the time Aramis turned into Porthos' chest.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Yes, Sire,” Porthos admitted, arms closing around Aramis again, pulling him close. “You're my family, though.”

“I always will be,” Aramis said, nuzzling into the crook of Porthos' neck and shoulder. “I just want you to be aware that a more traditional and, frankly, less illegal, family is always an option and you wouldn't ever be without me.”

“Understood Sire,” Porthos murmured.

Aramis lifted his head and kissed him gently.

“When you are with Alice, be with Alice. Don't think of me, don't feel guilty,” Aramis said, smiling, drawing back slightly to see Porthos' face. “I will be dodging those awful mutts anyway.”

At this Porthos smiled more genuinely.

“For now, mi vida, we need to switch our attention to the contest. We could really do with the purse.”

Porthos lowered his arms slightly and Aramis obligingly hopped up, wrapping his legs around Porthos' broad waist.

“Bloody 'ell,” Porthos groaned. “You're not as light as you think you are.”

Aramis laughed lightly and lowered his legs to stand upright again.

“No no,” Porthos said. “It's training for the contest.”

Aramis raised an eyebrow.

“If it means I get my hands on you, I'm not going to complain,” Porthos added, grinning broadly.

Aramis shrugged and obligingly raised himself back up into Porthos' arms who laughed and staggered back against the wall, even as their lips met.

Four hours later, as midnight approached, Aramis was wiping his sweaty forehead on the pillow. Porthos had four fingers in him and his other hand was working Aramis closer to his third orgasm of the evening.

“Is this... Is this what you will be thinking of?” he panted. “When you throw those men around?”

Porthos groaned softly, twisting his hands in tandem, one on, one in.

“You want me,” Aramis continued, his voice hoarse. “Tell me.”

“I want you, Master,” Porthos answered, his voice little more than a growl. “I always want you. Every man in my way, every person I need to get through, I will move them for you. Defeat them for you. Just for you.”

“More,” Aramis panted, fists gripping the pillow by his head.

“You just watch when I do it, Master. You know. You know how crazy you drive me, know how much I love to impress you. You drive me. You drive my desire for you in everything I do. Everything I do, it's for you, Master.”

Aramis grabbed a mouthful of pillow and gave a high pitched whine into the pillow as he found release. His limbs finally collapsed and Porthos gently withdrew his hand.

Those same powerful arms that tomorrow would beat and defeat soldier after soldier, man after man, cradled Aramis like he was something precious and turned him onto his back. The thick, muscled body covered Aramis' shivering one and gentle kisses were placed on his face.

“You're so beautiful, Master,” Porthos whispered. “Your pale skin, your dark hair, your scars.”

Aramis giggled breathlessly and Porthos kissed him, smiling.

“I adore you,” Porthos breathed before leaning away.

Aramis luxuriated, stretching his limbs gently as Porthos cleaned up, whipping the soiled towels away before covering Aramis' body with his own again.

“You aren't going to let me fight you, are you?”

“You know you'd win,” Aramis said, shrugging lightly. His hands had come up and began to stroke Porthos' sides.

“Against my owner?” Porthos asked, nuzzling into Aramis' hair.

“Just like I'd beat the King,” Aramis murmured sleepily. “One surrounds themselves with the greatest guards to serve them.”

Porthos smiled into Aramis' hair and slowly moved himself to lay beside his Master. Unusually Aramis turned to face Porthos, nestling into his chest.

“You OK, Sire?”

“Mhmm,” Aramis hummed. “In love.”

“With me?” Porthos teased.

“Not Madame Marchand?” Porthos teased. He paused, seeing Aramis' serious but soft smile. “You think I love Alice?”

“I think you like her,” Aramis clarified. “And I think you _could_ love her. I want you to know if love follows, it's OK. If there's a life there for you, it's OK.”

“My life is with you, Sire,” Porthos insisted. “I'll bear it in mind, though.”

“Good. Know I'm not going anywhere,” Aramis answered gently, tilting his face up for a kiss.

Porthos obliged and then raised an eyebrow.

“So... You'd be my... Mistress?”

Aramis laughed and pressed himself against Porthos, his hands settling on Porthos' neglected and bound cock between their bodies.

“So I'd be your Master and your Mistress? You'd come to me at weekends like any normal man but you'd come to me on your knees,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos buried his head in Aramis' hair.

“Sire,” he whispered hoarsely.

“How long since I let my property come?”

“I don't know, Master.”

“You don't count?” Aramis asked, slyly.

“No Master,” Porthos said, his eyes screwed shut as Aramis' fingers began to squeeze and release the bound flesh, just this touch bringing his muted arousal screaming back.

“Why not?”

“The same... the same reason I do not ask permission, Sire.”

“Which is?”

“Counting and asking doesn't matter, Master,” Porthos answered, panting now as the pain from the cords reached the same pitch as the arousal.

“Because?”

“Because I'll come if and when you like, not at intervals I can track or when I... when I...” Porthos gasped as a particularly hard throb of arousal sent a sharp pang of pain through him. “Or when I want you to want me to.”

Aramis chuckled quietly and leaned up to kiss the tortured expression on Porthos' face.

“Serious question, mi vida.”

Porthos opened his eyes, and found Aramis smiling up at him still.

“Do you need the cords off for this contest?”

Porthos thought about it for a few minutes, chewing on his lip.

“It's not a trick question,” Aramis said, laughing gently.

“I'm trying to predict,” Porthos answered, covering Aramis' mouth with one large hand. He withdrew it quickly when Aramis started licking it. “Mature.”

Aramis grinned and watched in silence as Porthos thought hard about his question.

“If I'm to be granted release as well, Sire, then yes,” Porthos finally answered. “If not, the cords stop... I'm on such a narrow edge they stop my arousal being a distraction.”

“So I've got you to such a level of need that it's only the physical bondage I placed that's letting you remain in control of your body?” Aramis asked, his hands immediately returning to the neatly packaged flesh.

Porthos swallowed hard, his eyes fluttering shut again.

“I think so, Master.”

“You're perfect,” Aramis said softly, kissing him. “I think an unleashed Porthos is what's needed.”

“Sire,” Porthos groaned.

Aramis wriggled out of Porthos' arms and shuffled down Porthos' groin.

“Well I'm never going to get the cords off like this, am I?” Aramis asked.

Porthos had only a few seconds of Aramis fingers on his testicles as a warning before they were pulled sharply down and away from his body.

He gave a loud shout of pain before swallowing the sound and groaning quietly. He writhed uncomfortably as Aramis began to twist the bundle of flesh back and forth, the pain built and just as Porthos was going to ask for some help staying still, Aramis let go.

Porthos was gasping in pain, fighting the urge for his body to curl around his injured genitals, and only realised Aramis had gotten the cords off of his now softened flesh when talented fingers wrapped themselves around his throbbing penis.

“Master,” he gasped.

“Look how fast my property is getting hard,” Aramis murmured darkly as he stroked. “Even in pain, even after being tied up, tortured, hurt... You still respond to me.”

“Yours,” Porthos panted.

Porthos dropped his head back into the pillow and groaned, fisting the sheets.

“So needy,” Aramis answered but without mocking. His voice was more awed. “You wouldn't even last long enough to fuck me, would you?”

“I... I could try, Sire,” Porthos whimpered.

“No, no,” Aramis answered, lightly. “Your hands did that quite well enough, thank you.”

Porthos laughed breathlessly and then gasped, writhing under Aramis' hands.

“So soon?” Aramis asked.

“Master,” was Porthos' only response.

“Yes. Yes, Porthos.”

Porthos groaned loudly as his orgasm rushed upon him, spilling over Aramis' hand.

“Master, Master,” Porthos chanted desperately, writhing as sensations became uncomfortable.

“I want you inside me,” Aramis said.

Porthos laughed breathlessly, his hips shifting restlessly.

“Thought you said I did well enough,” he challenged.

Aramis was silent for a few seconds until Porthos realised his cock was hardening, slick with his own release.

“I want you inside me,” Aramis said darkly.

Porthos watched as Aramis raised onto his knees, a flick of his hands telling Porthos to raise his hands above his head. It took less than a minute for Aramis to throw a leg over him and, with one hand guiding him, slip his still soft and stretched entrance over Porthos' hard cock.

“Oh Porthos,” Aramis sighed. “How I love when you're bound and desperate but having my property's cock inside me is still a wonderful pleasure.”

Porthos gripped the wood of their headboard and watched with awe as Aramis began to move.

There was no rush in his movements, no sense of urgency. He didn't appear to be seeking his own orgasm and Porthos' was never high on his agenda. He simply seemed to be rocking back and forth, rolling his hips in a purely sinful way.

“Close your eyes, mi vida,” Aramis murmured.

Porthos did so and the rocking, massaging motions seemed to settle into a rhythm. It was wonderful, gentle, pleasurable, sinful, erotic... Aramis was using him like a sex toy but not in a painful way. Porthos inhaled shakily and Aramis' hands stroked over his chest.

“You can come when you like, mi vida. You feel so incredible inside me so I'm going to keep doing this until one of us can't carry on,” Aramis whispered softly.

Porthos inhaled again and when he exhaled, his entire body shuddered as Aramis continued to gyrate upon him.


	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning,” Athos said as he entered the yard to find his three friends at their usual table.

Porthos was stretching against a post while Aramis was, predictably, cleaning his pistol. D'Artagnan was practising a parry with his dagger over and over, anger from the night before still written all over his face.

“Ready?” the Gascon asked, sheathing his blades.

“A word,” Athos said, steering him by the elbow under the stairs. “After I left you last night **she** found me in the street. She's made it clear she holds me responsible for all her deeds and she's warned me off. That is what I expected but I couldn't stop myself kissing her.”

Athos shook his head bitterly.

“You kissed the Anne you _knew_ , not this foul creature,” d'Artagnan said, fiercely.

Athos' tired eyes searched d'Artagnan's face.

“I'm sorry I let it happen,” he said quietly.

“Did you kiss her with her heart or your head?”

Athos frowned slightly.

“Neither.”

“You loved her, Athos. Part of you will forever love a part of her. I understand why it happened and I understand why you're telling me,” d'Artagnan said, his eyes hard. “We do not have room for her at the moment. We need to quash the Cardinal's ego and then we will tackle his creature.”

“She said I'll regret it if I don't leave her alone,” Athos murmured, casting his eyes around the yard.

“We will make her regret everything,” d'Artagnan said, firmly. “Everything. We will get through this competition, I will join the regiment we will end her, Athos.”

Athos nodded but d'Artagnan continued, his voice low and fierce.

“I have no blood family and no home in Gascony. I will not lose the family I have found in Paris for some creature that's destroyed lives,” he insisted.

Athos took a deep breath and straightened slightly. D'Artagnan looked him over with a determined expression for a few seconds and the two men returned to the training yard.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Athos stretched, his muscles sore after the day's training, especially the wrestling. Porthos had spent the entire afternoon eye fucking Aramis and Athos' back was paying the price.

“Aramis didn't actually beat me,” d'Artagnan said, a crease between his eyebrows as he paced while obsessing over his chances of being picked as the Musketeer's champion. “I know I didn't win either but it stands... Aramis couldn't beat me!”

“I did,” smirked Athos, eyes closed, already in bed.

D'Artagnan didn't answer but sat heavily on the bed to take his boots off.

“Aramis _will_ beat me in the shooting, he'll beat everyone, but I should be in the top five. Wrestling will be my weak link but I'm not too much worse than anyone else. You've always said Aramis is one of the best soldiers because of how well rounded he is but he might not do brilliantly there. You don't, either. If I can make the top five in the the sword by tying with Aramis then I could be in with a shot of winning,” he said, excitedly. “A dead heat between Aramis and I, though. I think I'm borderline. Do you think I'll make it? Am I good enough?”

“I believe so,” Athos said quietly.

D'Artagnan climbed into bed and Athos lifted one arm for him to curl, back to Athos' chest.

“Did I tell you I got the entrance fee? Milady de Winter tracked me down.”

Athos hummed an affirmative but gave no other reply.

“I know you got yours,” d'Artagnan continued but he didn't say anything else when the Musketeer didn't reply.

“Still, puppy,” Athos admonished after a minute of silence, hand stroking the tanned back.

“I can't sleep. This time tomorrow I'll be preparing for the fight that decides my career,” the Gascon whispered.

Athos didn't answer, his eyes still closed.

“Thank you for the coaching,” d'Artagnan said after another short silence..

“It's not an unselfish act,” Athos admitted drowsily. “Not only does it make you better in the field, I hate the idea that you might have to leave Paris without your farm. If I can coach you so that Tréville sees your skill and you may get the commission you deserve, I will do all I can.”

“This is my home, now. Everything I love is here. With you, with Constance, with the regiment” d'Artagnan murmured. “My whole future is here.”

Athos pressed a kiss into his hair but gave no answer. Finally, mercifully, d'Artagnan fell silent, ready to face the trials that would inform Tréville's decision.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Aramis slid into the hot water of the garrison bath house with a hiss, rubbing his arm.

“You got me, you know,” he muttered at Athos who had just entered.

Porthos, already settled in the hot bath, peered at the scratch on Aramis' arm and rolled his eyes at Athos but frowned when he saw Athos scowling in thought.

Aramis followed his gaze and frowned, also.

“Athos,” he prompted.

Their friend shook himself and began to strip off in a brooding silence before sliding into the large sunken bath with them both.

“Tréville won't change his mind,” he finally said, speaking for the first time.

“There has to be more to it,” Aramis said, frowning again. "The Captain has never claimed he is a better fighter than any of us before.

Captain Tréville had announced he would be competing against the Red Guard champion rather than picking a soldier. D'Artagnan had immediately stormed out of the yard and Athos, having been particularly incensed by Tréville's decision and had followed him to the office to question his reasons.

Aramis watched as Athos began his methodical bathing regime, beginning with one foot and moving up his leg before repeating it on the other. Rarely one to indulge the pleasures in life, Athos.

Two strong hands gripped Aramis by the biceps and he smiled as he was gently drawn through the water to sit astride Porthos' lap, his back to the broad, dark chest. He sighed happily and leaned back, arms to the side so Porthos could begin to wash his chest for him. Always one to indulge, Aramis.

“I'm sure it's just the Captain wanting to prove himself in front of the Cardinal's taunts,” Athos muttered darkly. “His reputation is bound up too tightly with the reputation of the regiment. He doesn't trust any of us in case we lose and his reputation is tarnished through the ineptitude of his men.”

There was an uncomfortable silence broken only by gentle sounds of water as Athos washed his legs while Porthos tipped Aramis forwards to wash his lover's back.

“Perhaps I'm being ungenerous,” Athos said reluctantly.

“I think so,” Aramis said, quietly. “There must be something else going on.”

The silence fell again but with less tension. Aramis settled back against Porthos in the hot water while broad hands gently washed between his legs.

“Can you let a day go without groping each other?” Athos asked, his humour returning.

“Ah, my Porthos isn't being suggestive,” Aramis countered.

“Are you asserting that having you naked on his lap is not suggestive?”

“Dios, no,” Aramis said, laughing and sliding off Porthos' lap.

He grinned as Porthos raised his eyebrows and then turned, at a signal from Aramis, to allow his back to be washed.

“I'm asserting that Porthos isn't suggestive,” Aramis said. “He's far too well behaved to feel me up in such a public and accessible location. Not everything is about sex, Athos.”

Athos smirked but before he could answer, the bath house door opened and Brujon entered with two of the men under his command.

“So Tréville's taking them on, then?” Brujon asked he room at large, stripping his own weapons off.

Athos nodded glumly.

“How's d'Artagnan taking it?” the older man asked, looking around. “I don't see 'im.”

“He's gone home. I'm going to find him now,” Athos answered, standing up and climbing out of the large sunken pool.

Brujon nodded and clapped Athos on his wet shoulder.

“He's a good lad, that one. You're a damn fine commander, Athos,” he said.

Athos turned and smiled, rare to see with anyone but his closest friends. Brujon and his men had slid into the still hot water.

“Can't even bathe yourself, Porthos? Didn't I teach you anything?” the soldier asked. “You becoming a handmaiden as well as a seamstress, 'mis?”

Athos smiled as the banter continued while he dressed. This is where he belonged. With these men, d'Artagnan and Constance. This was his family. It was high time he found the other two members.

“See you in the morning,” Aramis called and Porthos raised a hand in farewell.

Athos nodded and slipped out in search of his Gascon.

  
  


  
  


  
  


It didn't take Athos long to locate him. D'Artagnan was sat on a pile of crates at the end of the street leading through the alley to the Bonacieux house. The comfortable feeling he'd been carrying fell from him upon the sight. He paused for a second seeing the dejected slump of his lover's shoulders before approaching more slowly. Athos didn't say a word but simply sat beside d'Artagnan in silence.

Misery was rolling off d'Artagnan in waves but he hadn't spoken. He'd squeezed Athos' knee when he sat down but made no other movement. Something else had happened, not just disappointment at Tréville's decision. His guess would be either Constance calling their relationship off or Bonacieux finding out. Either way, D'Artagnan would tell him when he was ready.

An hour passed in silence, the two of them sitting in the alley, before d'Artagnan finally spoke.

“It's the contest in the morning,” he muttered. “We should get some sleep.”

Athos remained silent on the way to his sparse quarters and d'Artagnan did the same until they were undressing for bed.

“She's gone,” he whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed, head in hands.

“How so?” Athos asked softly.

“She says it was a daydream,” d'Artagnan said from between his fingers. “Being a Musketeer, being with her.”

Athos settled beside d'Artagnan on the bed and placed his hand on the curved back.

“Before you think it, it isn't you. She said she doesn't love me,” d'Artagnan admitted, his voice cracking.

Athos had no answer, completely unable to believe it.

“I- I should be strong,” d'Artagnan said, shaking himself and sitting up, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

“Not with me,” Athos said, quietly.

He simply rubbed d'Artagnan's back for a few seconds until d'Artagnan turned and curled into him like a child, crying silently.

Athos' own heart was breaking, the tall, strong man crying into his shirt like this. He wrapped two arms protectively around the tanned body and simply held him while he cried.

“She said she wants the respectable life and can't risk it for our silly flirtation,” d'Artagnan mumbled, the shaking of his shoulders slowing.

Athos didn't answer and squeezed his arms for a moment.

“If that's what she wanted, why did she ever entertain me?” d'Artagnan snapped, sitting up slightly. “Why lead me on? Why pretend she wanted me? Wanted us?”

Athos' arms loosened to allow d'Artagnan to sit upright in his anger.

“I wasn't pretending,” the Gascon whispered, his face crumpling again. “I loved her. I _love_ her.”

D'Artagnan slumped into his lover's arms and Athos held him through it all. Angry outbursts about money, wordless sobs, hopeless rambling about love. It wasn't until d'Artagnan was finally still in his arms that Athos replied to any of it.

“I've lost everything, Athos. Farm, Father, Constance, my shot at being a Musketeer. Everything,” he said miserably.

“You have me,” Athos said, simply.

D'Artagnan sat up suddenly, staring aghast at Athos' face.

“I didn't mean- I don't- I know-”

“Shh, puppy,” Athos soothed, pulling him back into an embrace. “I'm sorry. I phrased that poorly. I meant simply that no matter what, you have me.”

D'Artagnan nodded, sniffling against the damp material of Athos' shirt.

“You've had a trying time,” Athos said quietly. “It's what you do next that matters.”

Gently, he pulled d'Artagnan back up to sitting position and stared intently into his face.

“Answer me this. You have no father, no blood family, no farm, no land, no income, no commission,” Athos listed. “Take all that away, and what's left?”

There was a long silence as Athos' fierce gaze seemed to burn away the misery and d'Artagnan's became harder.

“Me.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unwritten epilogue to the episode. The Musketeers won, d'Artagnan defeated LeBarge, the King made him a Musketeer.
> 
> Now... They celebrate... with alcohol and sexual tension.

“I couldn't take my eyes off you,” Athos said quietly, as they walked back from the competition grounds to the city centre. His gaze kept drifting to the Fleur de Lis on d'Artagnan's shoulder, marking him as a Musketeer.

“I thought I'd lost almost everything,” the Gascon murmured. “My farm was gone, all chance of a commission gone with Tréville's decision, Constance throwing us over.”

“Shh,” Athos murmured.

“No, let me finish,” d'Artagnan protested quietly. “I walked onto that ground today with no hope but I saw my Captain, felt my brothers around me, and I knew I had everything I needed. Everything I wanted.”

“Heart before head,” Athos murmured.

“Hmm?”

“I told you head over heart but I think that doesn't work on you,” Athos explained softly. “Your heart took you into that fight and I believe your heart won it. You had the skill to match his strength but your heart carried you through.”

“You were in my head,” d'Artagnan argued. “He taunted me about my farm but I could hear you telling me not to react. Hear Tréville's shouting, Aramis' reminder.”

Athos smiled softly and his eyes rested again on the thick leather pauldron now adorning d'Artagnan's shoulder. He saw D'Artagnan looking at it too.

“We had that made for you after that business with Marie de Medici,” Athos said softly. He smiled again at d'Artagnan's small gasp. “You think the King has so many of these laying around that complement you so perfectly? Tréville presented this to him months ago and recommended you but the King will not grant a commission into his regiment until he's seen a man's virtue for himself. Today, he saw it.”

D'Artagnan stroked the leather himself but stopped when Porthos roughly shoved him from behind.

“Shameless self gratification,” Aramis chuckled. “In public, no less!”

D'Artagnan laughed and the four continued on in high spirits until they reached the city where he paused.

“D'Artagnan?” Porthos asked gently.

“I need to get my belongings,” he said.

“Want some back up?” Aramis asked, tentatively.

While d'Artagnan hadn't told them the whole story, they'd all gotten the gist. His face was to the East, the direction of the Bonacieux house.

“No. I'll do this myself,” he said, raising his chin.

“Well meet us at the yard,” Porthos called. “We'll help you get settled in to your new quarters.”

“And celebrate!” Aramis added, as d'Artagnan waved his hand over his shoulder.

“Gentleman,” Athos said, turning away and heading towards the yard. “I think it's time for another party.”

“I think this is what being poisoned feels like,” d'Artagnan slurred as he fell up the stairs.

“Open the door,” Porthos grumbled from the bottom of the stairs, slumped against the wall.

All four men were paralytic and trying to get up the flight of stairs leading to Aramis and Porthos' home. Athos was in the lead but had stopped to help the fallen d'Artagnan. Aramis was coming in third, slumped on the floor, half upright against the wall, giggling incoherently. Porthos was at the bottom of the stairs, the only other man still on his feet.

“Move it. I need a piss,” he grumbled loudly, causing Aramis to giggle even more.

“I have to... stop and... d'Artagnan,” Athos muttered.

“Just get the bloody door open,” Porthos called.

“Puppy,” Athos said, staring blearily at d'Artagnan who appeared to have actually fallen asleep on the stairs.

“Bugger this,” Porthos muttered and he clambered over the fallen bodies of both Aramis and d'Artagnan to get to the door.

He opened it at once and then came back, stepping over their newest comrade to reach Aramis who was now sprawled on the floor with his arms spread. The sight reminded Porthos of a babe waiting to be picked up. He obliged and scooped Aramis up and over his shoulder and returned to the top of the stairs.

“Come, puppy,” Athos urged and he squatted down, running his fingers through the sweaty hair.

“Tiiiired,” he replied sleepily.

“You're on a flight of stairs,” Athos pointed out.

“Ohhh,” d'Artagnan said, pushing himself to his hands and knees. “That explains a lot.”

Athos chuckled and got to his feet, holding an arm out as d'Artagnan got to his.

“My insides hurt,” he complained.

“Musketeer initiation,” Athos said, bracingly.

“Bed?” d'Artagnan asked.

Two loud drunken laughs sounded from their de facto bedroom.

“Not yet,” Athos said. “Come here.”

D'Artagnan followed him on wobbly legs to the kitchen where Athos was filling a cup with drinking water from the large bucket on the side.

“Drink this,” he instructed.

“Can't drink no more,” d'Artagnan complained, taking the cup anyway. “I'm entirely liquid from the knees up.”

“I'm not sure that's how the body works,” Athos said as d'Artagnan drank the cup.

A loud thump and a lot more laughing sounded from their room.

"Wassat?"

“Stay here and I'll check,” Athos said, smirking.

“Why aren't you as drunk?” d'Artagnan shouted.

“Athos has been at least half alcohol since 1924,” Aramis shouted back as the bedroom door opened with a bang and he stepped dramatically back into the room. "Behold! I am standing!"

D'Artagnan snickered and slid down the wall a little until Athos came to collect him a few minutes later.

“Bed,” he said, gently.

As they got undressed, d'Artagnan couldn't help running his hand over the pauldron before taking his doublet off. He settled into bed with his back against Athos' front and gazed at it where it lay, across Athos', two fleur de lis, side by side. One dark, muted and grey, one warm, fresh and tanned. He murmured happily and snuggled drunkenly into Athos' arms.

“My goodness,” Aramis remarked when d'Artagnan finally made his way out of the bedroom shortly before noon.

“Please. Stop shouting,” the Gascon muttered and dropped heavily into a chair beside Athos at the wide, heavily marked table.

Athos gently clasped the back of d'Artagnan's hand and returned the grunt this earned him.

“Feeling a bit tender, there?” Aramis asked as Porthos got up.

“My head hurts and I feel as though I haven't slept for a week,” d'Artagnan answered and he slumped forwards to lay his head on his arms.

Aramis and Athos chuckled lightly and Porthos returned and nudged him gently.

“Drink,” Athos said, as Porthos placed a cup of water in front of him. “You'll feel better.”

“Not thirsty,” he said, wrinkling his nose up at it.

“You'll feel better,” Aramis echoed. “Trust us. We have years of experience.”

D'Artagnan groaned but began to sip at the water, surprised how thirty he was.

“So are you absolutely sure, Aramis?” Athos asked, clearly resuming a conversation they'd been having before d'Artagnan rose.

“Oh I think so,” Aramis murmured. “It's about time, in my opinion. Its urgency has been made clear and what better occasion?”

“And Porthos?” Athos asked, still looking at Aramis.

“Oh yes,” he answered, lightly. “I'm aware to tone things down but it's time, Athos.”

“What are you talking about?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Aramis suggested today was a good day to show you what they do,” Athos said.

D'Artagnan whipped his head around to look at Athos, wincing at the movement, and found his lover's eyes hard and intense. Finding his mouth suddenly dry, he grasped his cup but found it empty. At a gesture from Aramis, Porthos took it and refilled it, bringing it back to d'Artagnan who quickly took two large mouthfuls.

“To you?” he finally asked, having finally managed to conjure words.

“We didn't intend to make rigid plans without you,” Aramis said, lightly. “We'd intended to have lunch out by the river to clear our heads and then see where the afternoon took us.”

D'Artagnan took another couple of mouthfuls of water to buy himself time at the revelation. Since he'd known the men seated around him had a prior relationship he'd been almost painfully curious. He'd felt jealous, left out and yet had come to accept it as necessary having seen Athos break down. Aramis had expressed some reluctance to let Athos go without their support but d'Artagnan knew that Athos had never chosen to go to them without his knowledge.

Despite his headache, d'Artagnan could feel his stomach quivering in anticipation. Every single one of them, Aramis included, had hinted at their marksman's prodigious skill and once or twice even d'Artagnan had felt himself affected by the raw dominance he'd felt rolling off Aramis on occasion.

“P-Porthos?” he asked.

He had no trouble believing Athos was content and Aramis had always expressed eagerness but he'd seen Porthos be overtly reluctant to reveal information about their relationship, let alone invite him in to see it.

“Porthos suggested it,” Aramis answered, serenely.

D'Artagnan's gaze flickered between the smiling Aramis and the silent Porthos. The latter remained silent but gave him a small nod in answer to the question in d'Artagnan's eyes.

“While he may have suggested it, he knows it'll place in him a state of vulnerability and exposure he'll find troubling,” Aramis answered.

“He's.. he's using you as a shield?” d'Artagnan asked. “I don't mean... I mean...”

“We understand and you're partly right,” Aramis answered. “Yes. Porthos finds comfort and protection in me but he also finds it much easier to swallow his self consciousness.”

Aramis glanced suddenly at Porthos, feeling his fingers touch his thigh beneath the table. He shook his head at the silent question.

“I have it, mi vida,” he murmured and smiled at the silent nod from Porthos. Turning back to d'Artagnan, he continued. “He wants to do this, d'Artagnan. For you, for Athos, for me and for himself. He's just nervous and doesn't want you to see him struggling with his nerves and misinterpret it as not wanting to do it.”

“So... I don't understand how...” d'Artagnan clutched his empty cup.

Aramis gestured at the cup and again Porthos rose, taking it from him.

“It... Hm,” Aramis considered for a moment, trying to phrase his answer in a way that was both accurate and yet didn't startle d'Artagnan. In the silence Porthos returned, pausing to return the cup to d'Artagnan and sat back beside Aramis. “What's the phrase Porthos uses?”

“A blanket,” Athos answered quietly, stroking his thumb over the back of d'Artagnan's and.

“Ah, yes,” Aramis said, nodding. His own hand was on Porthos' knee under the table. “Consider it that I am putting those parts of himself that get in the way to sleep. Porthos has many fine qualities like his courage, his wit, his humour but these become harmful defences when he's attempting to make himself vulnerable.”

Porthos was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. Aramis' voice had naturally taken on its soft, musical quality that these occasions brought out. After they'd agreed to proceed with this, to keep him calm, Aramis had banned him from speaking and put his chastity cords back on. Having his speech restricted always made him feel so much more dependent than either of them had expected when Aramis first began to toy with it. With that dependency, however, came that fog where focusing on anything but Aramis became harder and harder.

“He wants to share this with you, d'Artagnan,” Aramis' voice continued. “His courage is being given to you, today. He wishes you to see him a little more, to see me a little more. He wants Athos to be able to share this part of his life with you. He wants me to be able show him off as I am so so proud of him. His defiance, however, is awakened in these situations. The last time I allowed his defiance to get the better of his desire to submit, it was unpleasant for all of us. I remove that possibility and protect him from himself.”

“But... I still don't understand,” d'Artagnan said slowly.

“As I say... those loud, brash parts of him are put to sleep. Porthos likens the feeling to laying beneath a warm, heavy blanket. You **can** move, you simply don't want to,” Aramis went on. “You might vaguely be hungry, you might vaguely need to use the pot but how comfortable and warm you feel means you would choose staying there over just about everything else. If the need should arise, you are **able** to get up, but your blanket holds you there in its warmth.”

“So... should other needs become more urgent... Porthos would be able...” d'Artagnan asked, hesitantly.

“Well I won't deny I'm not one to play fair. I have been known to add more weight to the blanket if his stubborn head begins to rise,” Aramis answered, shrugging.

At this Athos chuckled softly and d'Artagnan turned to look at him.

“You're... You said... You didn't think you could be that vulnerable,” he said quietly.

“I think I might struggle to fall entirely under Aramis' spell, as it were, with you as I will be looking after you but I think it's time we try,” Athos answered softly.

His grey eyes had softened and he waited patiently while d'Artagnan searched his face. The younger man was chewing his lip nervously but his eyes were not scared. They were excited.

“Can I still ask Porthos questions?” he asked, turning back to Aramis.

“Yet you direct that question to me,” Aramis observed, smirking a little. “Almost as if you know the answer.”

D'Artagnan couldn't deny there was something undeniably sexy in Aramis' confidence and arrogance at that moment and he found himself nodding before he could stop himself.

“I can ask _you_ questions,” he guessed, knowing the answer.

Aramis' smile grew wider and yet there was something new there, something predatory in the slow way he nodded his head. The hairs on d'Artagnan's neck stood up and he was grateful for the unseen fingers Athos pressed at his back.

“Some fresh air, gentlemen,” Athos said quietly.

Nobody appeared to have heard him, though. Aramis and d'Artagnan remained gazing at each other across the table. It was like time had stood still and Athos knew full well that d'Artagnan was too proud to allow himself to appear submissive this soon. Aramis was, however, already on alert having Porthos this quiescent and Athos knew he wouldn't back down. With his greatest weapon sitting strong and silent beside him, those intelligent black eyes, normally so busy, were fixed on d'Artagnan's. Athos knew from experience Aramis had the skill to say a few well placed words and they'd cut through all d'Artagnan's pride and bravado just as he does to Athos and Porthos and yet wasn't doing so. It was his concession to their brother's newness but he also wasn't going to make it easy for d'Artagnan.

Athos took pity on him and rose to his feet.

“Gentlemen,” Athos said, a little louder this time.

D'Artagnan looked up in instinct but then quickly back at Aramis whose smirk was now triumphant. D'Artagnan shook his head as he, too, stood and Athos knew he was regretting looking away first. He rolled his eyes at Aramis who shrugged.

“I don't play fair.”

Despite suffering from his first real hangover, d'Artagnan seemed to perk up on the ride out of the city. Whether it was the fresh air or actually riding through the city for the first time with his pauldron on display, Athos couldn't tell. He couldn't deny, however, he felt incredibly proud to ride alongside him as a real brother in arms at last.

He flicked his eyes to Aramis and Porthos, leading the way ahead of them off the road and into the trees. Porthos had remained silent, as Aramis had instructed. Athos recognised the signs of Porthos' deepening state of submission and knew it was their way of preparing for the afternoon. It had been exposure to Athos that Aramis had been referring to. Porthos had openly defied Aramis in response and it had been extremely unpleasant for them all.

Already, Athos could feel himself being pulled in. It had been uncountable months since he'd been sexually intimate with anyone but d'Artagnan and while he loved his Gascon most fervently, he couldn't deny having missed his other lovers.

“So what's the plan?” d'Artagnan asked, breaking into Athos' thoughts.

“We haven't made one,” Athos answered, honestly.

“Well I gather Aramis will be running the show,” d'Artagnan prompted.

“Usually, yes. We can change that, though, if you like. He'll remain in control of Porthos and he has some ground rules you'll need to abide by,” Athos amended.

“No... I'm happy for him to stay in charge,” d'Artagnan said quietly. “The whole idea is for me to understand how the three of you work. I just meant... I don't know...”

Before Athos could prompt him, d'Artagnan took a deep breath and steadied himself before answering.

“I don't know what level in the hierarchy I'll be,” he said in a rush.

“That's the bit we don't have a plan for,” Athos said, gently.

“What are your instincts, though?” d'Artagnan asked as they broke into the clearing behind their friends.

“That's a question for you, not me,” Athos answered.

D'Artagnan swung down from his horse in a thoughtful silence and Athos watched his frown deepen as the four of them spread out in a loose circle, the breads, meats and cheese piled in the centre.

“No fruit?” asked Athos, peering.

“Haven't been to the market,” Aramis said, airily.

Athos watched as he selected a few pieces of food and set them down in front of Porthos before selecting his own and reclining back on his elbows, his hat tilted to shade his eyes from the midday sun.

“I might jest, d'Artagnan, but I can back off,” he said, surprisingly serious.

“I can take it,” d'Artagnan answered instantly, lifting his chin.

Athos glanced at his lap, hiding his smirk as he saw Aramis sit up with interest.

“Oh?” he asked, his voice lowering instantly. “What is it you think you can take?”

“Athos and I have... Well I'm not entirely new,” d'Artagnan said, his voice faltering a little.

“Oh yes?” Aramis enquired.

Porthos shivered a little at his side, feeling the shift in his owner. He glanced at Athos first who was smirking at his food, shaking his head a little at d'Artagnan's lack of wisdom. Looking at the Gascon he saw they were locked in another little staring contest, another minor battle of wills.

“I'm waiting,” Aramis said quietly.

“Well... I like Athos having... power over me in bed. He's... He gets, um...” he trailed off.

Nobody came to his rescue and this time, when he looked away, Aramis continued to stare curiously at him.

“Athos gets aggressive and I like... I like feeling weaker than him,” d'Artagnan said, his mouth dry again.

“Go on,” Aramis murmured, his voice like honey.

Porthos watched in silence as Aramis gradually wrung the information he wanted out. He managed to cover all of d'Artagnan's experiences, ascertaining there was no bondage experience, no pain beyond spanking, he'd both given and taken anal, he still considered himself inexperienced and warned that he got overwhelmed. Aramis was a master at this gentle questioning. He knew when to push, when to pull back. Athos was gently and quietly intervening when d'Artagnan couldn't answer, especially as d'Artagnan showed his propensity to getting overwhelmed when it came to discussing what he actually liked. Aramis had left these questions to the end and his hunger was finally starting to show through.

That morning when Porthos had suggested the four of them becoming intimate, Aramis had, at first, knocked him back, citing Athos' privacy and d'Artagnan's jealousy. Porthos had won him round, making him realise the four of them needed this, they were, all of them, more than brothers. The idea had been flirted with a couple of times and with his past's resurgence, it was more important than ever that Athos felt able to seek them out without hurting d'Artagnan.

Aramis' main concern had quickly become not putting Porthos beyond his comfort zone but it had been Porthos who had requested the stricter leash all day. As Aramis had told d'Artagnan, he found comfort in it and spending all day under that restriction would, indeed, serve to dampen his more rebellious instincts.

He wasn't naïve, however. Porthos knew this was not going to be easy. He did find it difficult to be on display. It certainly wasn't body confidence, having been naked in front of almost everyone in the regiment at one bath house or river or another over the years. It was, as Aramis had said, his vulnerability. He'd always been the biggest, the baddest... For people to see him submit was always a struggle. For people, even his brothers, to see him submit so completely in this new way was giving him butterflies. The pride Aramis would have in him, though, the peace it brought him – They were completely worth it.

A small pained throb, however, reminded him it was not without its immediate physical benefits. Decision made, Aramis had instantly instituted the no speech rule, rapidly followed by those damned black cords, binding his cock. On his knees on the floor while Aramis made slow, leisurely use of his mouth, Porthos could feel himself slipping into that foggy place instantly. He'd listened as Aramis had laid out his expectations. He intended to use no role plays so Porthos was expected to stay mostly alert as he would, more than likely, be required to take an active part. He was not to ask for anything, silently or otherwise. The only exception to this was he was permitted to ask for the gag by way of hand signal if he thought he would struggle to keep silent. He was to watch the other two for signs of distress and alert Aramis silently unless an emergency had arisen. Other than that, he was to do as he normally would when looking after Athos. To follow Aramis' directions and act as the muscle, taking his silent cues as needed.

“So sexual pain is on the table,” Aramis asked and the sharpness brought Porthos from his reverie and he looked at his owner.

Aramis' eyes were alight with that dangerous fire now. Porthos' cock throbbed in its bindings and his painful circle of denied arousal quickly began again.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan answered and while he didn't look, Porthos was reassured to hear d'Artagnan's voice steady and sure again.

“From any of us?” Aramis asked.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan repeated.

“And sexual contact?”

“Anyone but... I would prefer to only be... no offence meant... entered... by... only because... Athos,” he admitted.

“No offence taken,” Aramis said, his voice softening. “This is the point of this conversation, d'Artagnan. May we bind you?”

Porthos blinked slightly and it appeared he'd missed the point where it was established that d'Artagnan would be submitting.

“Y-yes,” d'Artagnan answered, his voice stuttering slightly.

“Would you like Athos beside you as an equal or prefer him to be on my end of things?” Aramis pressed.

“I think... I don't...”

There was a pause and Porthos looked to see him taking another deep breath. In the silence, Aramis handed Porthos another handful of meats and cheese and he began to eat obediently.

“I don't think I want to have all three of you above me,” d'Artagnan whispered.

“You will have Porthos,” Aramis said, his voice becoming dangerously soft. “While I may use Porthos as a weapon on occasion, please do not think for a second any dominance or control he asserts today is anything but my hand.”

Porthos' mouth was dry as he attempted to chew the salty meat. Athos and d'Artagnan were both looking at him but Aramis didn't. That simple choice not to even look at him made Porthos' stomach drop in the most delicious way and his skin prickled with arousal at the first inklings of objectification.

“Then I think I would like Athos to... I've never...”

D'Artagnan took another steadying breath.

“Depending on how I feel, I might like to ask Athos to... He's never... Maybe I'll ask him to do to me some of what I see you do to them,” he said quietly.

“That's not what you meant,” Aramis said quickly. There was a dangerous edge to his voice now and Porthos felt himself going slightly light headed. He watched d'Artagnan's face flame into life as he looked down at his lap. “What is it you'd like Athos to do?”

“To... To... If I'm bound then...” he trailed off, utterly unable to finish. Porthos saw Athos' hand against the small of d'Artagnan's back but it didn't seem to help.

“You'd like him to take you while you're bound and waiting for him,” Aramis breathed.

D'Artagnan actually whimpered at this and nodded, his eyes screwed shut.

“You know we'd be watching,” Aramis pressed, his voice silky again but without losing that dangerous, sharp edge.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan whispered.

“You want us to see that.”

It wasn't a question this time but d'Artagnan still nodded.

“You want us to see you being a good boy so Athos can take you properly. You want us to see Athos taking his nicely bound boy, all tied down, ready for him,” Aramis continued.

The leather across Athos' lap was uncomfortably tight. This was what he'd seen Aramis holding back from before they'd left. He always knew. He always knew what fantasies and secret desires you held and could focus on them with the aim he displayed with a gun. He never missed.

If he'd made even the slightest adjustment to his breeches, his cock would have been able to grow to complete hardness. The position d'Artagnan was sat in made absolutely no secret of his arousal and the poor man was almost trembling. Aramis' coat hid most indiscretions but he could see the slight flush to his high cheekbones that betrayed him. Porthos alone seemed unaffected but Athos could see the slight glassiness to his eyes, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he tried to swallow his food with such a dry mouth.

D'Artagnan was utterly beyond speech again and Aramis simply continued to stare at him with that laser focus. After a few minutes he murmured another question, this time to Athos.

“Is he always a good boy?”

“For me? Almost always,” Athos answered.

“Almost,” Aramis repeated. “Interesting.”

D'Artagnan's head whipped around to Athos who inclined his head in invitation. This was why Aramis was so good, he thought. He always presented you with opportunities to assert your own wishes without breaking the spell. Both bravely and predictably, d'Artagnan took it.

“For him,” he said, his voice regaining its strength a little. “Not sure I'd be so good for anyone else.”

“Not sure?” clarified Aramis. “Or you wouldn't be?”

There was a pause and Athos could see d'Artagnan trying to phrase his answer so he, too, didn't break the moment.

“I guess,” he began slowly, “it would depend on the person. Their... skill?”

Athos felt a swell of affection for the innocent way he couldn't quite keep the uncertainty out his voice but the twinkling in Aramis' eyes made it clear the challenge had landed all the same.

“Indeed. You mean to say any person other than Athos might have a fight on their hands to get you to be a good boy?” Aramis purred.

At this, excitement seemed to thrill through the body sat beside him and Athos could see d'Artagnan's spine straighten.

“I would imagine so,” he replied and Athos smirked back down at his lap.

There were a few minutes of comfortable silence as they finished the food they'd brought and Aramis watched his friends thoughtfully as the sexual tension naturally lowered.

“Serious questions for a moment,” he said quietly.

D'Artagnan and Athos looked up at him and he knew, without glancing that Porthos would have focused on him, too.

“Athos has expressed in the past that he's not sure he'd be able to submit to us with you present as he's so inclined to look out for you,” Aramis said. “How do you envisage us moving forwards with this. A pure demonstration?”

“You sound as if you have another idea,” Athos interjected.

“I do but it relies on role play and that's not what I wanted this to be today,” he answered, eyes still on d'Artagnan.

“What's your idea?” the Gascon asked.

“To put you side by side. That Athos is taking this punishment in your place, to protect you,” Aramis said, eyes now darting back and forth between them.

“No,” Athos said at once. “If his distress is a risk then I don't want any sort of guilt to be part of the atmosphere.”

Aramis nodded thoughtfully and watched as they clasped hands.

“Perhaps if Athos bound you lightly to a chair where you could watch?” Aramis suggested slowly. “It would be a gentle introduction to bondage for you. Athos can rest assured you are safely contained, exactly where **he** placed you and it won't leave you out of the... atmosphere.”

“I would be... waiting my turn. Waiting for Athos to come and get me,” d'Artagnan said, almost dreamily.

Visions unfolded easily before Aramis' eyes as he watched the Gascon's face flush with excitement again. He glanced at Athos who was frowning slightly but who also nodded slowly.

“What of Porthos?” d'Artagnan asked.

“He'll do as I say, be used as I see fit, positioned as I want,” Aramis said, again choosing not to look at Porthos.

He knew his Porthos well and this indifferent and arrogant assumption of his obedience turned them both on immensely. D'Artagnan's eyes, however, flicked to Porthos and his man must have given some sign of acceptance because something in the tanned face relaxed before d'Artagnan looked away.

“Athos mentioned you have ground rules,” d'Artagnan said, his voice almost back to normal.

“I do. Only one of real import. You absolutely do not touch Porthos without my explicit permission until I say otherwise. I will let you know when the gloves are off, for lack of a better term. Please don't be offended if I give Athos free rein before you,” Aramis said pleasantly. “You are still a slightly unknown quantity and he's my most valuable possession.”

D'Artagnan laughed softly and nodded.

“No touching. Got it,” he said.

“You can ask to touch him, though. I don't want you to feel you can't,” Aramis said, smiling. “Another rule is that you are likely to see things you aren't used to so please make me aware if you're uncomfortable. If you have questions, and I'm sure you will, please ask them.”

“The third sounds a little more complicated but you'll understand what I mean further along the line. Don't try and 'help' Porthos,” Aramis continued, his voice thoughtful. “There will be rules, bondage and restrictions in place that make his life difficult, that make him uncomfortable or even cause him pain. I'm sure you know by now any attempt to 'rescue' Porthos will not be received well by any of us. If you see him unable to do something he really wants to do... Do not assist him.”

D'Artagnan laughed again, remembering his attempts to circumvent Aramis in the past and he nodded, thoughtfully.

Aramis felt, more than saw, Porthos begin to tremble and knew he'd understood even if d'Artagnan hadn't.

“He means that he keeps Porthos on a fine line between what Porthos can and can't cope with. He knows him well enough and if you interfere, even with the greatest intentions, you may ruin Aramis' plans,” Athos explained, having seen them in action before.

“Will he cry?” d'Artagnan asked suddenly, not sure where the question had come from.

Aramis turned and surveyed Porthos who was, indeed, trembling slightly. He saw those warm brown eyes seek him out but saw simple loving acceptance in them and he pondered.

“After a fashion perhaps but not in the way you're thinking,” Aramis finally said, turning back. “I can't really explain it, I'm afraid. You'll see what I mean and again, I encourage questions if you don't understand something.”

D'Artagnan nodded and Aramis glanced around to check everyone had finished.

“Shall we, then?” he said, brightly.

At once Porthos rose to his feet and extended a hand, helping Aramis to his feet. Aramis cast a habitual glance around the clearing and stepped closer, closing his eyes as Porthos' arms encircled him.

“Mmm,” he said quietly so only Porthos could hear. “Sometimes it's nice to be held.”

Under normal circumstances, he knew Porthos would have replied or made some other gesture. Today, however, he simply pressed his face against Aramis' hair and tightened his arms.

“Mi vida,” he sighed, happily. “You know, these strict controls make me suffer, too. I miss the way you touch me, kiss me so gently. You know what I love even more? That you aren't doing that. You're just so obedient. I love you, so much. I'm so proud of you,” he murmured.

A calm sigh was all he got from Porthos and all he would have permitted.

“Perfect,” he said softly, kissing him again. Their eyes met under their hats and that unadulterated surrender was still there.

“Go and pass water, mi vida. Then we'll mount up,” Aramis said, gesturing at the trees.

Porthos slipped silently away and Aramis stretched happily. He saw Athos and d'Artagnan having a whispered discussion by the horses and remained where he was to give them their privacy. When they looked like they were done, he wandered over and mounted his own horse.

“More than arm's reach away?” Athos asked, eyebrows raised.

“Worried he might make a run for it?” Aramis asked, watching his friend swing into the saddle. Athos rolled his eyes and they shared a smile.

It was another minute or two before Porthos came hurrying from the trees and mounted up beside Aramis.

“What took you so long?” d'Artagnan asked, turning his horse towards the path only they knew.

Athos followed but Aramis held Porthos back a few seconds.

“I know what took you so long. The second you undid that cord, that gorgeous cock went all hard. My Porthos loves his captivity, loves just waiting for me to require him,” Aramis said softly, watching Porthos' eyes flutter closed. “But you had to follow my instructions, didn't you. You managed it but then you had to put it back. Did you have to hurt yourself? You may nod your head.”

Porthos did so and Aramis gave a small murmur of approval as he drew his horse close enough for their thighs to brush.

“Did you squeeze that poor painful cock? Pinch those sore balls for me? Just to make that hardness go away?”

Porthos nodded again, his eyes closed and he swayed a little where he sat.

“That's right... Then you bound it back up, nice and tight, because it doesn't matter if that cock wants to be hard,” Aramis purred. “I wonder if you'll find release today. Athos will. D'Artagnan will. I definitely will. Will Porthos? What do you think?”

Porthos' eyes opened but he made no actual movement either way.

“Good answer,” Aramis murmured and nudged his horse to follow the others.


	6. Chapter 6

“Right, team,” Aramis said, as he let everyone into the house. “Porthos... No, actually... Athos. Athos is on water collection duty so everyone give him your skins. Porthos, rug. D'Artagnan, come with me.”

Aramis paused for a second while the other two men began to move at his instruction. While Athos gathered everyone's skins and the bucket from the kitchen, Porthos immediately began stripping his outerwear off. Aramis inhaled slowly, his eyes closing for a couple of seconds, feeling authority begin to build. He opened his eyes again and smiled to himself before striding across to the bureau against the far wall, d'Artagnan following. He knelt and felt around the back for the key hidden on a hook. Collecting it as d'Artagnan knelt beside him, Aramis unlocked the bottom drawer and drew it out slowly.

“This is my, for lack of a better term, war chest,” Aramis said quietly. “I want you to have a little look through and see if there's anything you want to ask questions about, anything you have strong feelings about, positive or negative, and then let me know when I come back in a minute, OK?”

“OK,” d'Artagnan answered in a whisper, his eyes scanning the ropes, the canes, the whips and even a heavy looking set of manacles glinting at the back.

Aramis squeezed his shoulder gently and returned to the hatstands where he began to remove his own weapons and coat. Porthos had taken his shirt off and his hands had moved to the laces on his leather breeches.

“Not yet,” Aramis said quietly. When Porthos raised his eyebrows in confusion, the instruction "rug" normally meaning underwear or nude, Aramis nodded silently towards d'Artagnan, still kneeling by the chest.

Porthos smiled in understanding and then silently moved into the centre of the white shaggy rug covering their living area and slipped to his knees. Aramis caught Athos' eye, who was just leaving to head to the well and they smiled at each other. Even after Athos left, Aramis kept watching his lover's silent, kneeling form. There wasn't much in the world more beautiful. His eyes roamed over the well muscled shoulders and the rapid relaxation he saw. His Porthos was nervous, that was true, but he was managing his tension, letting Aramis' familiar instructions keep him safe. Porthos' lips had turned up into a small smile where he knelt alone.

Aramis shook himself slightly and stripped to his shirt and breeches, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and rejoined d'Artagnan.

“Anything catch your eye?” he asked gently.

“The chains,” d'Artagnan whispered in a slightly awed voice. “They... They're to hold Porthos?”

"They are," Aramis answered. "We've only used them a few times. Ordinarily Porthos doesn't struggle but these let him do that."

"And these... These he can't get out of?"

“You _want_ to see Porthos bound?” Aramis asked, surprised. “It was my understanding you were curious about Porthos' willing submission.”

“I was. I am! But... He's so strong and... to see him actually... contained... It-”

“One day at a time,” Aramis chuckled, cutting d'Artagnan off gently. “Anything else sparking an interest?”

D'Artagnan silently pointed out a makeshift paddle that had been a wooden serving board until Aramis had made six large holes in it to serve as a large paddle.

“Why the holes?”

“They make the wood swing faster so I can hit with such a heavy object a little harder,” Aramis answered, promptly.

“It's a paddle?”

“A large example of one, yes.”

“Do you have any others?” d'Artagnan asked, nervously.

Aramis obligingly shifted a couple of things aside and drew out what clearly used to be a hairbrush but someone had removed the cushion. He also drew a more traditional leather paddle.

“I'd like to see... I like the idea of spanking,” d'Artagnan said.

Aramis smiled and reached up to place them on the bureau. D'Artagnan's nerves seemed to be much less the closer the reality came, which wasn't what he'd expected. Under his nervous guidance, Aramis also collected rope and what Aramis had explained to be a gag. There were two of these and Aramis collected both, intending to keep one available should Porthos need to ask. He also kept the bandages he used as blindfolds out and collected his favourite thin, light flogger. He'd removed the knots upon purchase and it now served as a thin whip to warm skin up rather than device to slice through skin. He debated before also bringing out the thinner of his canes.

“Go and make yourself comfortable, d'Artagnan,” Aramis said quietly.

“Should I... Undress?”

“However you are comfortable,” Aramis said, his voice still gentle. “You can sit where you like. I suggest you also use the pot as well so you're not interrupted later.”

Aramis smiled as d'Artagnan complied and he moved into his and Porthos' bedroom to collect the rest of what _he_ wanted and to use the pot himself.

By the time he was done, Athos had returned and was divesting himself of his doublet, weapons and belts already hung up. D'Artagnan joined them, looking slightly shy, dressed still in his shirt and breeches, as Aramis was.

Athos took the few steps and kissed him softly, one hand on the back of his head. They rested their foreheads together for a second and Aramis found himself smiling at the display of tenderness.

While they took a moment together, Aramis drifted closer to Porthos and crouched behind him.

“I couldn't do this without you,” he whispered. “You're my strength and my heart.”

He rose to his feet and smiled as Porthos seemed to kneel up a little straighter at this. Rejoining his brothers, he noticed Athos had a tight grip on one of d'Artagnan's wrists. He raised his eyebrows and they both nodded at him.

Athos followed Aramis to the dining table where he kicked a chair out. Aramis glided quietly to the bureau and looked through the rope before coming back to the pair. Athos licked his lips and turned d'Artagnan with the grip on his wrist and pushed him into the chair.

Athos, as a solider, was no stranger to tying a man to a chair but he'd learned over the years with Aramis, this was slightly different. Security wasn't the only concern. For example while it was usually more secure to secure a suspects arms to their torso, he chose to draw d'Artagnan's wrists behind his back, securing them there with the rope Aramis handed him. Similarly, instead of binding his ankles and knees together, Athos bound one ankle to each leg of the chair, spreading the man's legs slightly.

He cast an eye over d'Artagnan and saw him shaking slightly. The slight taut patch across his leathers being gently pressed from beneath let him know he was feeling that same eroticism from being exposed that Athos did. He silently held his hand out and Aramis gave him another length of rope. This he used to wrap around d'Artagnan's waist, binding him more tightly to the chair. With a gentle touch, he caressed the leather, feeling the outline of d'Artagnan's arousal and watched his knees flex, instinctively trying to close his legs. There was a flicker of understanding in d'Artagnan's eyes and Athos couldn't help kissing him, understanding now why Aramis kissed so forcefully when Porthos was compliant beneath him. The tangible power was a heady, heady thing.

A small whimper broke him out of his senses and he withdrew instantly, grey eyes searching brown. They were alive, hungry and excited. Athos pressed a lingering kiss to d'Artagnan's forehead and withdrew, turning to Aramis. He slowly drew his shirt off and tossed it casually onto the back of one of the armchairs.

“Porthos, light a fire and then come,” Aramis said quietly, looking Athos steadily in the eye.

He knew what Aramis was looking for and he wanted to do it but with d'Artagnan bound at his back, it was very hard to show the small act of submission Aramis wanted. Porthos was moving around quietly, the noise from the fireplace quiet and unobtrusive but he could almost feel d'Artagnan's eyes on his back. He'd placed d'Artagnan there, in a position of vulnerability. He knew Aramis never proceeded without some form of acquiescence but today it was harder than usual.

When Porthos returned to stand at Aramis' shoulder like a silent sentinel, neither man had moved. They weren't doing anything but watching him but facing them together always sent a small shiver down Athos' spine and today was no different. Aramis smiled, a predatory thing, at the small movement. Athos felt his stomach drop several inches at the sight but he stiffened.

“Like that, today?” Aramis asked, eyes narrowing.

Athos had intended to go willingly, not to risk upsetting d'Artagnan at seeing him physically manhandled. He was still Athos, of the King's Musketeers, though. He inclined his head silently to Aramis whose smirk widened. Years together meant that was all the consent he needed.

“Bring him to me,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos seemed almost more intimidating somehow without the cockiness. Ordinarily Athos attributed his nerves to the way Porthos swaggered or grinned maliciously. Today, that wasn't here and as Porthos advanced, Athos still felt butterflies beating wildly. He took a step to the side, edging along the short of edge of the table into more open space, but Porthos simply changed the angle of his approach, striding straight at him.

Athos grabbed the table behind him and lifted himself up, lashing a kick out at Porthos who simply batted it aside. He caught sight of Aramis moving around behind Porthos, paying no attention to the imminent fight. In the second he'd glanced at Aramis, Porthos had stepped within arm's reach. Lashing out with a wild fist, Athos' wrist was caught and Porthos used his own swing to turn him around and shove him hard against the table, the edge driving the wind out of him.

As quick as that, it was all over. Porthos instantly crowded over his back, widening his stance so the kicking feet were easily avoided. A sudden crushing pain in his wrist made him grunt and his other arm was gripped in Porthos' other hand. In unison, Porthos began to squeeze until Athos had his face screwed up.

Suddenly the pain stopped and he gasped in relief. Seconds later, his momentarily limp arms were manhandled and his wrists were gathered into one of Porthos' huge hands and held painfully up at his shoulder blades. He was hauled roughly to his feet and forced to stumble over to where Aramis was waiting.

“Must you always make it so difficult?” Aramis asked, wearily.

“Must you always ask someone else to do your dirty work?” Athos retorted, regretting it instantly.

“Knees,” Aramis said, sharply and a rough kick from Porthos took him to his knees, hitting the floorboard painfully, Porthos and Aramis dropping to crouches as he fell. It was a well practised move and the synchronicity was just as intimidating as the first time.

Fingers lifted his chin and he shook his head out of Aramis' grasp.

“We each have our skills, Athos. He deals with unruly guests and I suppose you now want to see mine,” Aramis said, shrugging and stood up.

Athos remained on his knees, Porthos crouched behind him like a large load on his back, pinning him to the floor. Of its own accord, his head drooped and he was breathing hard through his nose. The impulse to check on d'Artagnan after the violence was in direct conflict with the growing instinct to simply let Aramis and Porthos control him. He shook his head to try and clear the instinct to give in but took a steadying breath when he heard Aramis say something quietly and d'Artagnan's hoarse whisper answer. Aramis thought of everything.

“I will let you choose today, since you brought a guest,” Aramis said loudly and Athos grunted in pain as Porthos pulled him to his feet using his painfully angled arms.

As he was turned he saw four tethers waiting for him on the table, positioned at each corner, to lay him bare.

“Would you like to lay on your back or your front to start with?”

“To start with?” asked Athos hoarsely.

Porthos shook him slightly and pain flared in his arms again.

“A simple question,” Aramis said, irritably.

“My back,” Athos answered.

“On you get then,” Aramis said, gesturing.

Suddenly Porthos' hands were gone and Athos swayed where he stood, arms falling limply to his sides. He saw Aramis smile briefly at d'Artagnan and guessed this deviation from the norm was for his benefit. Today, Aramis wanted explicit consent so he had to choose to place himself at their mercy. This wasn't a true representation, though. He knew Aramis was just trying to reassure d'Artagnan but d'Artagnan needed to what actually happened. Athos turned to give d'Artagnan a swift smile before wiping his face clean and looking daggers at Aramis.

“Going soft?” he goaded.

A hand on the back of his neck slammed him chest first on to the table and he panted with shock, adrenaline coursing through him.

“Front it is, then,” Aramis said lightly.

A rough, rude hand lifted him between the legs, pushing him up and onto the table. Aramis' hands appeared from nowhere just as Athos tried to push himself to his hands and knees. In the confusion it wasn't hard for them to get him spread-eagle on his stomach. Porthos' hands held his legs fast and with determined movements, born of practice, it wasn't long until Athos' wrists were bound to the table, one by one.

“I don't think we need the breeches,” Aramis mused. Athos thrashed on the table but with four hands against zero, it was a losing battle and soon he was left in just his linens. As his ankles were secured he lifted his head.

“Aramis. I cannot see d'Artagnan from here,” he said quietly, his breath already fast. He didn't want to break the spell of fear, uncertainty and excitement the sudden violence had prompted but the whole point was that d'Artagnan was his to protect.

“Porthos has that well in hand,” Aramis answered.

With one of his breath taking displays of strength, Porthos simply picked up the chair with the bound Musketeer attached and placed it against the wall but where Athos could now see him. When Porthos disappeared from Athos' line of vision, he and d'Artagnan were able to share a surprisingly heated look. Athos had expected it to be reassurance and personal check ins they would be exchanging but this was pure excitement.

“D'Artagnan selected some items he'd like to see but I think I'll save them for Porthos when I'm done with you,” Aramis said calmly. “I think I'll stick to my old favourites here.”

Athos nodded, his head resting on the table between his outstretched arms. He was unsurprised, therefore, to feel the tails of Aramis' thinnest flogger trailing along his back. His eyes flicked up to d'Artagnan briefly before closing. Seconds later, the first lash fell and Athos sighed.

Porthos watched Aramis work, naked admiration shining on his silent face. Aramis was a master. The lashes landed with the smallest of gasps and sighs. Each time he gave Athos time to enjoy the sensation before the next stroke fell. Up and down and back up, Aramis worked, covering his shoulders, his waist, his hips. Aramis was beautiful. Hair fell around his face but between the black waves, Aramis' face was the picture of contented concentration. There was a man in love with his task.

Per his instructions, Porthos had drifted closer to d'Artagnan, bound on his chair, well out of the way but with a good view. As they'd expected that morning, d'Artagnan's expression was one of rapt attention, not fear. He was made of sturdier stuff. Athos had a comfortable smile on his face, eyes closed. Porthos registered a dim surprise that Aramis was not pushing him yet but guessed it was d'Artagnan's presence that stayed his hand for a few more minutes until Aramis finally stopped.

“Enjoy that?” he asked softly and Athos nodded drowsily. “Skin feeling warm?” Athos nodded again.

Porthos smirked, seeing where this was going. He touched d'Artagnan's shoulder in warning and when he looked up to meet Porthos' gaze, the Gascon's eyes widened at the knowing expression on his face. Aramis' hand was slowly petting Athos' hair but it grew suddenly tight, pulling his head up sharply.

“Feel like that was an accurate demonstration of you becoming powerless and our beating your black thoughts out?” he asked, darkly.

Athos' gasp was audible as the energy in the room suddenly shifted. Porthos moved around the table silently to take the light flogger from Aramis' outstretched hand. He saw the wildness in Athos' eyes from this close and knew they had him now.

They'd learned from experience over the last couple of years that Athos needed to lose control with them and if they were going to give an honest demonstration to d'Artagnan, they needed to help him do just that. Athos normally came to them out of control already and it was the two of them reining him in but this time they needed to knock him off balance themselves. He handed Aramis the cane.

“Do we need the small clothes?” Aramis asked quietly and glanced at d'Artagnan who made no motion of dissent, simply attempted to lean forwards to see more closely.

Porthos glanced at Aramis, waiting for the answer and after a quick tilt of his head, Porthos made quick work of Athos' breeches. With his legs parted, Porthos was only able to bunch them just below Athos' knees.

Athos never failed to be undone by this act of uncovering his buttocks and he was still trembling when Aramis brought the cane down with a whistle and a crack, not on his body, but on the space between his legs. Athos' body jerked violently on the table and he gave a small whimper of fear.

Porthos turned his eyes to d'Artagnan who was panting quietly but he definitely understood Athos hadn't been touched. He glanced back to Aramis and found him looking away from d'Artagnan at the same moment. A jerk of his head had Porthos around the table in an instant and an instruction whispered in his ear. Following it, Porthos moved to where d'Artagnan sat bound and knelt silently beside him to watch.

D'Artagnan tore his eyes away from his prone and bound lover to the kneeling form beside him and then up at Aramis who had walked over, cane in hand. He crouched in front of d'Artagnan and his voice was almost too quiet for d'Artagnan to hear.

“Athos needs to fear me in order for me to possess him. If you watch him calmly submit you will not see how vital this is for him,” Aramis whispered. “Imagine him in those black states you've seen. The fear of me breaks through that so he can focus on one single source of agitation. This may be upsetting, I realise, so I give you my Porthos to steady you. He will only move if something is wrong. Trust in his experience and take comfort from him.”

D'Artagnan listened but had to take a minute before he finally nodded. Aramis smiled at him, glanced at Porthos, patted d'Artagnan's leg and stood, returning to Athos who was still shivering slightly.

As he passed Athos' head, Aramis whipped the cane through the air, a faint whistling sounding in the air that made Athos pull against his bonds trying to scramble away. A quick look to his left and d'Artagnan understood why Porthos was there. His silent kneeling form was a steady, calm presence. He let his attention drift back to the men at the table.

Aramis had begun to tap Athos' buttocks with the cane, rapidly, lightly, rhythmically. The room was silent but for the captivating tapping sound. The man's back and buttocks were lightly tinged pink from the flogger but Aramis was now focusing his attention on the latter. His cane worked rapidly up and down, back and forth, across the high rounded orbs of muscle until he could see a slightly more definitive pink blooming and he stopped.

Athos was laying calm on the table again so Aramis quickly whipped his cane down on the table again, this time beside Athos, and again it made him pull violently away in fright. He smirked and leaned down, to murmur into Athos' ear, just loud enough for their friends to catch.

“Now you wished to see my skills, hmm?”

Porthos watched from his kneeling position and saw the light in Aramis' eyes as the body beneath him shivered. Warm up over, then. He straightened up slightly to give d'Artagnan a little warning and his cue landed as the Gascon did the same in his bound position.

There was a short whistle, a sharp crack and a split second of silence before Athos gave a pained cry of surprise.

Porthos suddenly understood what Aramis had meant when he'd come to d'Artagnan. He focused on Aramis for a moment and their eyes met, understanding passing between them.

Athos normally came to them in turmoil, in a panic. Aramis' ability to use pain to soothe and to calm was second to none and his most used method was rhythm. This time, however, Aramis was going to use his cane, use his skill, to knock Athos _into_ turmoil instead. He watched the eyes of their beloved sniper rake over the exposed buttocks before landing another sharp strike across them and Athos yelped, jerking hard. Aramis met his eyes again and Porthos understood this to be a reminder to stay steady. He centred his weight on his knees a little more and settled his hands neatly in his lap to watch.

Pride soared in Aramis' chest at the way Porthos understood and obeyed so easily. He spared a quick glance for d'Artagnan but he had eyes only for Athos' suddenly panting face. Aramis turned his focus on the body beneath him.

Another strike to Athos' buttocks in another spot made Athos yelp in surprise again. This was not the slow building caning he knew and loved. This was painful from the gate and he couldn't predict it. Another strike landed and he writhed on the table as the burn registered. There was a confusing second between feeling the impact and then the hot burn of pain.

“You wanted my skills,” Aramis said, in his ear.

Athos couldn't help shivering again at the threat. There were several bright spots of pain flaring across his buttocks and he knew it was only the beginning. Again there was a strike in yet another new place, harder this time, and he groaned deeply as the heat flared, hotter and higher this time. A second strike landed just below it before he'd caught his breath and he gasped but the pain didn't come to the same extent. It seemed to be swallowed by the harsher line above it. He instantly tensed himself for the next strike but it didn't come. Long seconds passed until he finally caught his breath but another harsh strike landed and it was expelled in a rush.

Another blow landed, and another. They were never the same, never the same place, the same strength, the same interval. Athos had only the second warning of the swish but his breath was becoming harsh in his ears and he was even losing that minor warning.

It rapidly became difficult for Athos to discern any spot that was left untouched by Aramis and his entire bottom was ablaze with pain, peaking in some spots, lesser in others but all blurring into one. He was panting harshly now and he wasn't sure if he was sweating from the exertion or from the sheer heat building across his buttocks.

As quickly as it started, it stopped.

Athos lay there for several seconds, waiting for another blow, expecting this to be simply another long pause to throw him off but when a water skin was presented to him, he jerked in surprise.

“A reprieve, only,” Aramis said and Athos looked up at him, still breathing hard. “Drink.”

Athos drank obediently and pressed his forehead against the table, trying to calm himself.

Thank goodness for Porthos, d'Artagnan thought. Seeing Athos yelping and jerking against the ropes was more distressing than he'd expected but Porthos hadn't reacted in the slightest. So, d'Artagnan had taken Aramis' advice and drew strength from the large, silent form. He trusted his brothers and had seen the concentration on Aramis' face. If there was anyone in the world whose aim he trusted implicitly, it was Aramis.

It was only when the marksman looked at him that he realised he'd been straining forwards against his bonds slightly. Settling back, d'Artagnan stared at the shaggy mop of hair, willing Athos to look at him. When he finally did, d'Artagnan couldn't stop the small start of shock.

Athos' face was red, his breathing still fast and there was a look in his eyes that reminded d'Artagnan of a duel. It was excitement, abandon, adrenaline and a small amount of panic. His eyes fluttered closed as d'Artagnan watched and he shifted uncomfortably on the table.

“Too hot?” Aramis asked.

“Can't... It's... I need... Yes,” Athos muttered.

“Well let's give you something better to think of,” Aramis murmured.

D'Artagnan watched as Aramis straightened, taking up the cane again. Electricity seemed to crackle off of him, his black hair falling around his face again. Something made Athos jump in fear and then relax, shaking slightly. D'Artagnan strained to the side and he realised Aramis was simply stroking his flesh with the cane.

Without warning, Aramis raised the cane and whipped it down. There was utter silence in the room. Athos had clenched his fists and his teeth and his entire body appeared to be trying to curl up in pain but the ropes wouldn't permit it. D'Artagnan held his breath, unashamedly frightened, until he saw Athos slowly hiss his own breath out, gradually unclenching his body.

“Are you going to need a gag,” Aramis asked, not unkindly.

Athos, with difficulty, raised his head to d'Artagnan and his fright must have shown because Athos shook his head.

“Just shock,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“This one won't be, then,” Aramis said, shrugging and he struck viciously again.

Athos' head reared off the table but when his forehead came slamming back down into the table to keep himself from yelling, Aramis' hand was blocking the wood. D'Artagnan cried out a little but Porthos was already on his feet. Two steps to the bureau and he was holding out a small bundle of cloth to Aramis, who was shaking his hand out.

“D'Artagnan,” Aramis said quietly, gesturing to Porthos. “It's not to stop him making noise as you might expect. It permits him to make noise. He is a stoic soul, is Athos. He will cling to the idea of remaining silent for as long as he can and I won't risk that sort of reaction happening again.”

D'Artagnan nodded and watched as Porthos gently pressed a wad of material into Athos' willing mouth and then wrapped a bandage around his mouth, pressing it deeply.

“This way, he won't fight it for neither his pride, nor to save your distress. Placing him in a position where even his protests don't matter will make it easier for him to accept the pain,” Aramis continued, nodding approvingly at Porthos' handiwork. He held his hand out for Porthos' inspection but kept talking to d'Artagnan. “Athos needs to be pushed into accepting it. That's the point of what we do. We push him into accepting it so that our will matters more than whatever is bothering him.”

D'Artagnan nodded his understanding and watched Athos who was still panting, only this time around the cloth gag. Already he could see Athos calming, flexing his jaw around the cloth. He nodded slowly and gave a small smile when Athos' eyes met his. They continued to gaze quietly at each other while Porthos examined Aramis' hand.

“No fingers broken,” Aramis announced cheerfully. “Better luck next time.”

D'Artagnan and Athos were still gazing at each other when Aramis struck and the older man's eyes went suddenly wide and then closed as pain seemed to wash over him. D'Artagnan imagined he could feel it, rolling out in waves from where Aramis had struck.

“'ow... 'ow enny,” Athos croaked around the cloth when the pain had receded enough.

“Oh I don't think we'll be doing a countdown today,” Aramis said. Turning to d'Artagnan he added “I often give them a countdown of how many strokes are left so I can build up to it and they can prepare for how long they have left. Today I think I'll just see how I feel.

Athos groaned at the answer and flexed his fingers enough to grip the edge of the table. He clung to the numbers. He needed them. They kept his head on straight and guided him home. Today he was utterly at Aramis' mercy and that could mean-

All thought evaporated when another vicious slash blazed across his skin. It took his breath away and he welcomed the gag as a muffled groan escaped as he sagged back against the table.

Pain flared again, this time across his left calf and his leg jerked wildly again the rope, trying to shake the pain out. He had less of a rest this time when the back of his right thigh suffered another painful strike and he had to yelp into the gag as the cold skin suffered the new burning pain.

The time between blows quickly lost meaning as Aramis' strikes became more spread out. His inflamed buttocks were not spared whatsoever and they continued to receive vicious attention but there was no discernible pattern. Sometimes he struck Athos' calves, sometimes his thighs, sometimes one buttock, sometimes both.

Porthos' cock throbbed angrily against its bondage, not aroused by Athos' pain and suffering but by watching Aramis. He was a marvel. He was savage, exacting, sinister, considerate and utterly glorious. The small crease between his eyebrows was there and his mouth was twisted slightly in concentration. Power and cruelty rolled off him and his hair seemed to be standing on end slightly as his arm whipped from location to location, never missing.

Athos was crying out at each blow now, the gag muffling the sound somewhat but the pain was audible. D'Artagnan was panting at his side, leaning forwards again and Porthos couldn't read him well enough to discern arousal or curiosity but there was certainly no distress. He allowed his attention to drift back to Aramis and his heart soared to see this beautiful man freed like this. Hours of study and practice on Porthos had gotten him to this point and heat flared across his skin at the memories.

With neither fanfare nor flourish, Aramis stopped and Porthos watched the black eyes, filled with what appeared to the outsider to be malice, rove across Athos' body, surveying the damage left by him. It was nearly a full minute before Athos' body finally relaxed, shuddering and whimpering, the ropes going slack. When Athos did so, Porthos felt d'Artagnan do the same, relaxing back into his chair.

Porthos switched his full attention to Aramis, waiting for the command that came only a few seconds later.


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos moved from his position at d'Artgnan's feet and knee-walked forwards the short distance to the table edge. He gently undid the gag, drawing the wad of cloth out of Athos' mouth and gave his cheek a gentle pat before withdrawing so Aramis could feed him some water. At a silent nod from Aramis, Porthos undid the ropes, not from Athos' wrists but from the table legs. He quietly did the same with Athos' ankles.

“Wet towel please,” Aramis said softly, one hand holding the skin in case Athos wanted any more water, the other gently petting his sweaty hair.

Porthos glanced around for a few seconds and saw a bundle on his armchair that Aramis must have placed there while Porthos was waiting on the rug. Taking a towel to the kitchen, he dipped it in the full water bucket and wrung it out. He returned to the living room and Aramis smiled at him, rising to his feet.

“Take my place,” he murmured softly and Porthos did so, kneeling beside the table where Athos' head lay and reached up to pet his hair.

Porthos watched as Aramis the calm and gentle medic took over. Skilled and soothing hands skimmed over the abraded and damaged skin, causing small hisses of pain and a frustrated shifting. Eventually, Aramis folded the wet cloth into a long wide strip and laid it carefully across the heated buttocks and Athos' sigh was so loud Aramis chuckled. Satisfied, Aramis collected a chair and quietly moved to sit beside the still bound d'Artagnan.

“Thoughts?” Aramis asked, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“You didn't hold back like I thought you would,” d'Artagnan said.

“You seemed OK and I needed to show you the break through,” Aramis said, shrugging.

“I am OK. I get it. I see it,” d'Artagnan mumbled distractedly. He was still staring at Athos.

Porthos smiled and privately thought this wasn't really the right time to get d'Artagnan to assess anything.

“You were able to read him like a book,” d'Artagnan said, suddenly. “I remember Athos saying once you were just as deadly here as in the field.”

“I assume that's a compliment,” Aramis asked, amused.

Porthos looked over his shoulder at Aramis and smiled.

“I want to go to him,” d'Artagnan blurted and Porthos stiffened slightly.

“I know,” Aramis answered calmly. “He placed you here, though. At the moment Athos is in my custody.”

“But I can comfort him,” d'Artagnan protested, straining forwards.

“Patience, my friend,” Aramis soothed. “You knew of this. When Athos is back with us, he will come and get you. Peace, peace,” Aramis said, murmuring quietly as d'Artagnan grew agitated in his bondage. “You'll rouse Athos before he's ready. Wait a few minutes, d'Artagnan. He'll be with us.”

Porthos watched as d'Artagnan settled somewhat but his face remained tight and tense, staring avidly at Athos.

“He OK?” Athos mumbled.

Porthos looked at Aramis for how to answer with no speech.

“I didn't hear,” Aramis said, rising and crouching beside them.

“He OK?” Athos repeated drowsily.

“He's utterly fine, my friend,” Aramis said quietly. “Eager for your return but still neatly packaged just as you left him.”

“You didn't let him go,” Athos sighed, a little louder, and the relief in his voice was audible to all of them.

Porthos watched as d'Artagnan settled back into the chair and he gave the Gascon a reassuring smile.

Aramis ruffled Athos' hair affectionately and then went back to d'Artagnan's side.

Long minutes passed in silence as they all waited for Athos to surface and yet there was no more tension in the room. Aramis started to sing quietly and gradually Athos began to stir.

  
  


  
  


Aramis rose and peeled the wet towel from Athos' buttocks and smirked with satisfaction at the deep purple stripes. He turned the cloth over and lay it back down, the coolness making Athos sigh again.

“Back with us?” he asked softly, his hand stroking firmly between Athos' shoulder blades.

“I think so. A little shaky, though,” Athos admitted.

“I have left the ropes trailing so we can rebind if you need,” Aramis offered.

It seemed, however, the mention of rope had awakened Athos to d'Artagnan's patient presence and he shook his shaggy head.

“Help me stand?” Athos requested and Aramis and Porthos moved as one to help him shuffle back off the table. Aramis considered offering to help him re-lace his underwear but Athos simply stepped out of them when they fell to the floor.

Porthos met his eyes but Aramis shrugged at him. Out of the four of them, everyone had seen Athos naked the most and if he didn't request clothes, they weren't going to force them on him. The three of them stood still for a few seconds until Athos had his legs under him and he walked slowly over to where d'Artagnan waited.

Aramis leaned tiredly against Porthos whose arm came up to support him and they watched as Athos first took d'Artagnan' face in his hands and kissed him tenderly.

Straightening, Aramis saw a problem before Athos did and murmured “My dagger,” to Porthos.

By the time it was placed in his hand, Athos had already undone the rope binding his torso to the chair and had just realised he was going to need to bend or squat to reach the others and that was going to hurt.

“Athos,” Aramis said, quietly. He offered the dagger and inclined his head at the look of gratitude this earned him.

He sauntered back to where Porthos, still silent, waited and turned his back on him, settling against his body and sighing as Porthos' arms circled him. He slipped a hand between their bodies and cradled Porthos bound genitals through the thin fabric.

“Your turn next,” he murmured softly. “You won't be keeping your smalls on. They'll see those cords and see how truly you belong to me.”

He felt Porthos' intake of breath, whether from what he'd said or the touch to his painful penis, Aramis couldn't be sure. He found he didn't much care. He continued to fondle the soft bulge as he watched d'Artagnan removing the loops of rope Aramis had left in place around Athos' wrists and ankles.

“Where to?” Athos asked.

Aramis reluctantly peeled himself from Porthos' embrace and gestured towards their living area.

“My suggestion would be to lay on your side or stomach on the sofa or floor,” Aramis said, smirking.

  
  


  
  


Athos nodded and looked at d'Artagnan for a moment before picking up on the short lengths of rope d'Artagnan had left on the table. He nudged d'Artagnan ahead of him and they followed Aramis. As they reached the sofa, Athos caught d'Artagnan by the elbow.

“Wrists behind your back, puppy,” he said quietly.

D'Artagnan whirled around but Athos watched him patiently until the Gascon slowly, very slowly, turned his back and allowed Athos to bind his wrists behind him again.

“Sit on the floor, please,” he said, just as quietly. “Just there,” he added, pointing.

D'Artagnan complied and Athos smiled softly down at him.

“Aramis, would you mind awfully securing my boy to the leg?”

D'Artagnan started suddenly as if he meant to rise but Athos held a hand out to him.

“Only because I can't come down there just yet. I'm not giving him to you,” he said soothingly. “My legs, Aramis, really? Must you?”

“I stand by my choices,” Aramis replied from where he was on one knee, deftly attaching d'Artagnan's bound wrists to the leg of the sofa. “Got you naked, didn't I?”

Athos glanced down in surprise, having not really registered before.

“So you did. How unusual for one or all of you to see me naked,” Athos answered, drily.

Aramis laughed, getting to his feet.

Athos settled himself onto the sofa, finally deciding to lay on his side when Aramis returned with a freshly dampened towel and Athos draped it over his backside gratefully.

  
  


  
  


Porthos waited where he'd been left beside the table, feeling a little lost. He wanted to follow Aramis but his job was done for now. There were bits of rope all over the floor and table, Aramis' cane lay abandoned on the table as well. Athos' braies were pooled on the floor where his leather breeches had landed. Should he be tidying? No. Aramis has explicitly said not to without instructions. He was also told not to act without instruction. Should he be following Aramis to pick up on any cues? Should he have gotten the fresh towel?

He watched Aramis moving around, settling Athos and d'Artagnan and felt an unfamiliar sense of confusion and uncertainty. He yearned for direction, for his Master. Aramis was moving some things from his armchair onto Porthos' and gathering some items from the top of the bureau that Porthos couldn't see.

Finally, he came to Porthos where he was waiting silently.

“Shh, shhh,” Aramis soothed, running his hand over Porthos' brow where it must have been wrinkled in his concern. “I'm here. I'm here, mi vida.”

Porthos couldn't stop himself leaning in and Aramis obliged, pressing a gentle kiss to Porthos' forehead.

“Your responsibility is done. It's your turn now to just obey. To let me hurt you,” Aramis murmured. “I'm going to be taking a few minutes first but I'd like you blind.”

Porthos' breath hitched. He was no longer a great lover of the blindfold and having both vision and speech taken away meant he had almost no way to communicate. Not even the silent looks between him and his Master. He wouldn't know if they were looking at him, if they were smirking at him. If Aramis was looking at him.

“Mi vida,” Aramis prompted gently.

Porthos shook himself slightly and looked pleadingly at him.

“I told you not to ask for things,” Aramis reminded him but he was smiling.

All the same, Porthos felt irritated at himself for letting his own fears override the directive.

“You're welcome to simply hold your eyes closed, as you are holding your own tongue,” Aramis offered. “Or you can have the cloth.”

Porthos frowned at how to communicate without his words. He didn't think his nerves would permit him to simply hold his eyes closed and the cloth Aramis referred to was a simple bandage used as a reminder.

“Would you prefer the padded version?” Aramis asked in a whisper.

Porthos nodded, relief and gratitude flooding through him. Aramis still understood him. He smiled apologetically but Aramis waved an airy hand and disappeared into the bedroom.

He glanced at their brothers by the sofa but they were deep in conversation and it was only seconds before Aramis was back.

This blindfold was two bandages stitched together but Aramis had added two pads of thick fabric between them where Porthos' eyes sat, to add cushioning. These pads were wide and dark enough to cut all slivers of light out, meaning that even if Porthos did open his eyes, he couldn't see anything but darkness.

Even though he closed his eyes willingly, Porthos couldn't stop his body shaking and his breath coming in short gasps as the pads were placed.

“Try that,” murmured Aramis.

Porthos obediently opened his eyes and there was the smallest inkling of light at the bottom of one eye where it hadn't sat quite right against his nostril. For the smallest of instances, Porthos considered keeping this secret but before the thought had solidified, his hand had reached out to Aramis. When Aramis took his hand, Porthos guided it to the sliver of light.

He heard himself whimper as it was closed off and Aramis took his hands. Reflexively, Porthos gripped them tightly and the familiar thumbs rubbed soothing circles into his own hands until Porthos calmed himself down.

“You're simply going to sit between my legs while I rest,” Aramis' voice said and Porthos nodded. “I need one more thing from you before we go over, though. Another brave, brave thing from my beautiful strong boy.”

Porthos whined, guessing what it was.

“Hush,” Aramis said, a little sharply. “Some noises are involuntary but I know the difference. You are not a stupid man and I know you do, too.”

Porthos swallowed hard and nodded, the admonishment shaking him from his petulance. It still took him two deep breaths before he lifted his chin.

“Good boy,” Aramis purred.

As he'd guessed, Porthos felt Aramis' fingers releasing the laces of his underwear and the last barrier between the secret of his captive and bound genitals and the eyes of the others was gone. The leather strap he wore around his leg as a collar was well known and something he felt nothing but pride in. The cords on his penis, however... He shivered and there was lump in his throat but Aramis took his hands and tugged him gently around.

He'd followed Aramis with his eyes closed before so this wasn't new and he was able to navigate easily enough when his bare feet touched the thick rug but he was still grateful for Aramis' hands as his head was spinning.

“What-”

“In a moment,” Aramis said, cutting off the predictable and completely unsubtle Gascon.

Porthos felt hot and cold stealing over his skin in waves as the realisation of how on display he was crashed over him. He swayed dangerously on his feet but Aramis was there, stepping close so Porthos leaned on him for the few seconds he needed.

“Sit,” he murmured.

Porthos complied but without any of his normal grace. The ground seemed to come up extremely fast and he was suddenly on the floor. He felt Aramis' legs moving around him and he realised he was sat in front of his chair, back to Aramis.

“Come back,” he instructed.

There was simply no way to this gracefully so Porthos didn't even try. He shuffled backwards until hands on his shoulders stopped him. Long legs framed him, contained him and Porthos gave a shaky sigh of relief.

“What was your question?” Aramis' voice asked.

“I've seen the strap before but the... the strings?” d'Artagnan said softly.

“As you know Porthos is not permitted to find release without my permission. Those cords stop him even getting an erection without my permission. His very bodily impulses are under my control,” Aramis explained. “He even asked for me to control his impulse to open his eyes.”

The legs around him squeezed his legs a little tighter, and Porthos realised he must have been shaking again. He gripped the leather strap on his leg, clinging to it as this new situation made his head spin.

“And how are _you_ feeling?” Aramis asked, lifting his voice slightly.

“Throbbing,” Athos answered and the three of them chuckled above Porthos.

The three friends were talking quietly but Porthos found his mind drifting. He felt removed, somehow. His arms were like lead, his hands limp in his lap fingers laying motionless across the strap, no longer cilnging. It was Aramis' legs holding him up or he felt he would have slumped to the side.

His mind wandered but not to anything in particular, simply drifting away from everything, not listening to the murmuring voices around him. Even his arousal was a quiet hum in the background, the humiliation of being on display felt far, far away now.

“I was surprised just how non-sexual it was,” d'Artagnan said, quietly. “I was... I was aroused at the beginning with the bondage and the position but it just... went away.”

“Not entirely, I hope,” Athos murmured, his hand squeezing gently on the shoulder it was resting on.

D'Artagnan laughed lightly and tilted his head to nuzzle against the hand.

“Well the bondage is back... so...” he teased. “How are you feeling, now?”

Athos pondered for a minute before answering.

“I'm OK,” he said, finally.

His backside was throbbing but the cool, damp towel across the skin was like an instant salve and the burning pain had stopped now. The skin on his legs was still stinging something chronic and yet didn't throb like his arse did. This break was doing him the world of good, though. The clock told him they'd been resting for at least half an hour but it could have been longer since Athos hadn't really paid attention.

Experience told him that whatever Aramis had planned for Porthos was going to be far more challenging to see so he was pleased he'd thought to tether d'Artagnan where he could easily reach him.

“I'm surprised you don't have more questions,” Athos prompted.

“Well it's.. did you.. Was it arousing?”

“Not for me, usually. As you saw I don't go down gracefully and that takes the eroticism from it for me,” Athos answered calmly.

“But you've said in the past that it leads to sex,” d'Artagnan said, nervously.

“It has. Often does,” Athos replied, honestly. “You see now how they're separate, though? On a normal occasion, this would have been all of Aramis' plans. I admit to being rather selfish and the pain portion tends to be all about me.”

Aramis laughed lightly at this.

“You know we don't mind,” he interjected.

Athos smiled.

“I know, my friend. What would ordinarily happen is I have a short rest, similar to the way we are now. Sometimes I doze off, sometimes they will as well,” Athos went on. “Usually Aramis will leave me bound in some way to ease me back from captivity and as the three of us come back to awareness, things turn a little more carnal. I am, as you have complained before, rather assertive in the bedroom and that often helps me transition.”

“That's why Aramis left the ropes on you?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Yes, puppy. When I've been unable to think straight and their all consuming control is what has put me right it's like...” Athos trailed off and lapsed into thought. “It's like the tide. They draw the dark water from inside me and it leaves me empty. Gradually a new wave of clean water will fill me again but while the tide is out, I need to be tethered to the shore.”

“Eloquent,” Aramis murmured.

“But you said no,” d'Artagnan said, confused.

“I am not empty today,” Athos explained. “Aramis wound me up until I fought the pain like I normally do but there was no blackness to drive out. When I came back to myself, my tide was already in.”

“Tides, whirlpools,” Aramis murmured, his eyes closed. “You and Porthos talk as if you're made of liquid.”

“Why do you like it?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Other than the emotional relief, I think it's the satisfaction like a hard day's training causes soreness A sense of achievement,” Athos mused.

“He means me,” Aramis said, eyes still closed.

Athos glanced up at Aramis and then back to d'Artagnan who was nodding nervously.

“I just... I can't imagine being able to do such a thing,” d'Artagnan said quietly.

Athos watched Aramis, resting in his armchair, legs braced tightly around the blind and mute Porthos. He was relaxed and didn't seem to mind the question, rather was just pondering it.

“It's the control,” he said finally, his eyes still peacefully closed. “It's an unequivocal display of the trust and power they give me. It's something I excel at from a technical point of view and being able to perform any task I excel at makes me happy.”

D'Artagnan's head had tilted gently to press against Athos' ever present hand on his shoulder and Athos rubbed his thumb slightly in answer.

“I love to watch the relief and the peace break over them. I love to see Porthos' arousal,” Aramis continued, his voice quickly falling into its hypnotic, musical cadence. “I love to feel their surrender when I finally break through their internal struggles. I love to look after them, to protect them, to push them.”

Athos' various points of pain seemed to throb all the harder as Aramis' voice dropped slightly and his eyes opened.

“I won't deny that I do enjoy their pain. I don't know why I do, but I do,” he said, black eyes focused on the enraptured Gascon. “I do simply enjoy making them suffer.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All those warnings given to d'Artagnan? They were for you guys too.
> 
> Ahead there be pain.

There was a moment of tense silence in the room and d'Artagnan had absolutely nothing to say to that. He watched, still captivated, as Aramis shifted forwards and murmured something into Porthos' ear.

There was a slow rolling motion that went through Porthos' body, filtering into his ear, sinking down his body and then gently up his spine, seeming to unfurl him like a standard and he straightened a little. His sightless face turned towards Aramis' and tilted up for one of the most tender kisses he'd ever seen.

Aramis' hands were resting lightly on Porthos' cheeks, fingertips sliding along his cheekbones, his thumbs brushed lightly across the cloth where Porthos' eyes should be. There was no real motion in the kiss, just a simple press of their slightly parted lips. Aramis lingered, though. One hand stroked down Porthos' face, lifting his chin up gently just as he finally pulled away, a small line of moisture lingering for just a second before it was gone and Aramis' eyes opened.

D'Artagnan was breathless just watching them. Aramis whispered something and Porthos' comfortable sigh was audible in the stillness. Long fingers stroked and cradled Porthos' face as Aramis continued to murmur, too soft and too low for anyone but Porthos to hear.

There was a shift in his tone and Aramis straightened Porthos' body, turning him back to face the room. Aramis had leaned forwards, his lips right at Porthos' ear and his arms stretched down over Porthos' torso. Feet hooked into Porthos' crossed legs and slowly drew them apart. A tremor went through Porthos' body and Aramis paused.

“You want to go without? If this is too much you can try bu-” Aramis' voice was audible but it cut off at a sudden shake of Porthos' head. Whatever he'd been asked, Porthos definitely didn't want to try.

“Mmm, just how I like you,” Aramis purred, no longer troubling to keep his voice quiet.

D'Artagnan's mouth was dry again and he licked his lips in anticipation.

“Into the centre, sat as you are with the soles of your feet together, facing our friends,” Aramis said, waiting a moment until Porthos had shuffled enough before standing up.

Porthos' stomach was quivering in anticipation, his cock throbbing painfully already. It had been the genital bondage Aramis had offered to remove when his mention their friends seeing it had made Porthos sway. Partly it was that he didn't trust himself to be able to stop himself climaxing after such intense denial recently but it was more that Aramis loved the cords and was clearly excited for the others to see their effect and that made the choice for him.

He imagined he could feel his brother's eyes on the slightly purple parcel between his legs, exposed as he was in this position. His hands were itching to cover himself, to hide but there was no way he'd ever do it. Simply sat there, blind and mute, on display, this most intimate control of Aramis' visible to all was keeping him light headed with twisted desire. His cock simply throbbed, trying to harden desperately and Porthos was unable to deny the prickling of humiliation was causing it.

“D'Artagnan picked a few toys he'd like to see demonstrated but I have decided I want to use something else, instead,” Aramis' voice said from further away than Porthos had expected.

“Out of courtesy, we will demonstrate his wishes and then we will demonstrate mine,” Aramis continued, his voice growing closer. “Onto your hands and knees, facing my chair.”

Porthos struggled to comply, his entire body feeling heavy. It was as if the thick cloud of arousal and ownership was molasses, making it hard to move his body through the space. The position placed him side on to their friends and he felt Aramis kneel beside him, on the opposite side, leaving him exposed. Aramis nudged him to crawl forwards a few inches and without conscious thought, Porthos leaned closer to him and felt soothing strokes along his back.

“We have three items to go through,” Aramis told him.

He may have been talking to the men the other side of him, Porthos wasn't sure, but he remained strangely grateful for the information.

Something cold smoothed itself over Porthos' skin and he recognised the feel of the leather paddle Aramis had made.

“Pick a number,” Aramis' voice said and this time Porthos knew he wasn't talking to him.

“It'll be the number of times Aramis strikes him,” Athos explained quietly.

“Fi-five,” d'Artagnan suggested.

There was a quiet chuckle from Athos and even d'Artagnan laughed. The sounds made Porthos' blood run cold and then heat blaze through him again. The horror of being witnessed, his fate decided, his guess that Aramis had disagreed with such a low number made him want to curl into a ball and hide. The sharp pain as the cords dug into his thwarted erection, however, reminded him he wanted this, Aramis wanted this. He was Aramis'.

“Fifteen?” d'Artagnan tried again and within seconds the leather paddle landed.

Aramis was not messing around today and Porthos gripped the carpet. He'd been warned this morning that Aramis intended to flaunt Porthos' pain tolerance and having seen how viciously he went after the less experienced Athos, he knew this wasn't going to be easy. Any ideas that Aramis' cruelty would be tempered by their inexperienced visitor had been thoroughly destroyed.

A second blow landed and a third before Porthos could catch his breath. He forced himself to keep breathing through it, counting to two on each inhale and exhale. He was still forcing his breath into this pattern when Aramis stopped and what breath he had, he let out in a shaky rush.

Even after only fifteen strikes, his entire bottom was on fire. Aramis had even managed to cover the top of his thighs, even with such limited strikes to work with.

A hand stroked gently between his shoulder blades and he shook a little, adrenaline coursing through him, relief that one was done but aware there were another two go and he knew not what they were. If this was how hard Aramis was going with the comparatively harmless paddle, Porthos' mind couldn't stop racing ahead to whatever the next items were.

“Happy with that number or would you like a change?”

There was a pause before d'Artagnan's shaky voice upped the count to twenty.

A loud thwack sounded in the room and Porthos tossed his head in surprise but managed to stop any noise. It wasn't until the third of these hard slaps that Porthos recognised Aramis' modified wood hairbrush. It had been a long time since they'd used it and as the blows continued, rocking his body and forcing the pain deeper into his muscles, he couldn't remember why. The pain was delicious and he could feel his cravings beginning, like physical tendrils reaching out from his stomach in search of the pain.

This time when they stopped, Porthos was panting and his cock was straining against its bonds. When Aramis' hand rested between his shoulder blades this time, he could feel sweat pooling on his back. Memories of being spread over Aramis' lap with that brush coursed through his mind. How it felt on the insides of his thighs. His head hung down between his shoulders and he had to stifle a groan of pure want.

“Oh my good boy,” Aramis crooned, his hand stroking the line of Porthos' spine. “You see, d'Artagnan. You see he wants the pain?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan's slightly awed voice answered.

Porthos straightened slightly, heart swelling as he realised he was making Aramis proud. This was what his Master wanted. He wanted to hurt Porthos and for Porthos to want it too. His back arched slightly, eager for whatever was next.

“Same number?” Aramis' voice asked and Porthos waited placidly as his fate was decided.

“I don't know,” d'Artagnan whimpered and there were long seconds of near silence. Athos' whispers were faint but not discernible.

Porthos' calm was shaken when Aramis lowered his mouth to whisper in his ear.

“After this it's dealer's choice.”

Porthos trembled where he was at the sinister edge in that warning. Aramis had been vicious but kept himself in check with Athos. He'd evidently decided this short demonstration was all the warm up Porthos needed. His heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears as fear began to build and he almost missed d'Artagnan's answer.

“Ten,” d'Artagnan he finally said, voice clear in the quiet room.

Pain and shock coursed through Porthos and his entire body rocked forwards with the force of the blow. He hated this toy. Hated it with a passion.

Porthos' head tossed in anguish as another blow shook him. It was too large, hit too hard, too spread to cope with. He liked his pain to build, to sting, to burn... This just felt like being hit by a door.

His teeth gritted as the blows fell, the violence upsetting his calm. He shook his head where it hung between his trembling arms, trying to fight the pain off.

“Is he...” d'Artagnan's voice sounded over the roaring in Porthos' ears and Aramis stopped.

“He's fine,” Aramis answered, dispassionately. A hand ran over Porthos' burning and bruised buttocks and Porthos shuddered, arching into the touch as his genitals throbbed against their bonds again. “See,” his Master said again, smugly.

Porthos let himself pant recklessly through the last four blows, not trying to fight the pain, letting it overwhelm him, soaking it all up, revelling in his position as Aramis' prop.

When Aramis stopped, he gave no reaction, simply remained on his hands and knees, panting and waiting for what was next.

“Questions?” Aramis' voice asked.

“How do you read him so well?” d'Artagnan asked, the awe in his voice back.

“Practice,” Aramis answered, simply. “Down.”

Porthos shakily began to lower himself to his stomach but Aramis stopped him, nudged him forwards another couple of inches before encouraging him down with a hand on his back. When his toes brushed the brick of the hearth, he understood.

“Athos, are you mobile yet?”

“I am. Tender but yes,” Athos' voice answered and Porthos could hear him moving to sit up and recognised the sharp breath of him sitting on his abraded flesh.

Aramis stood too, leaving Porthos alone on the rug.

“Would you mind?” Aramis' voice asked from somewhere six feet above him.

With their boots off, Porthos couldn't hear where people were and his vulnerability washed over him again. He could vaguely feel vibrations in the floor as people padded across the floorboards but when they were on the rug, he couldn't track them at all.

The air moved around him and gentle hands he recognised as Athos' lifted his face and presented a water skin. He took a mouthful and then several more, realising his thirst. As the skin was taken away, Athos' hand brushed through his hair and gently but firmly lowered his head back to the floor, pinning it gently.

Porthos barely reacted at this new development. The idea of Athos taking a hand had been floated a few times over the years and every time Porthos had been frightened. Aramis, however, had never ever ruled it out and appeared more interested each time. As the calloused hands he knew belonged to Athos smoothed over his bruised flesh, it appeared today was that day and yet this deep under Aramis' blanket of control, Porthos felt no concern. Voices started up again but he made no effort to listen. He focused all his energy on getting his body, his breath, his heartbeat, back under control before Aramis unleashed himself.

“I can do it,” d'Artagnan muttered, pulling his head away from the water.

“I'm not releasing your hands.”

“Then I don't want any,” he pouted.

Athos shrugged, a small smile playing under his beard, and settled himself gingerly on the sofa.

“Why am I still tied up?”

Athos stroked the hair back from d'Artagnan's face, tilting it so their eyes met.

“Everything Aramis has done so far has been for you and I. What's going to happen next is for them,” Athos explained. “He's going to push Porthos.”

“Why?” d'Artagnan asked in a small voice.

“He likes to show off,” Athos answered, smiling down at d'Artagnan. “I think also to show you how much he holds back with me. To show you that he doesn't **just** beat me for the fun of it. He adapts and he tailors it. I don't think any of us want you to labour under the misunderstanding that what you've seen is the _extent_ of his capacity for inflicting pain. He does hold back when he needs to”

“And he likes to show off?” d'Artagnan asked, grinning up at him.

“Yes puppy,” Athos said, leaning forwards a little more so they could kiss, even if the angle was awkward.

“What if it's too much for me?” d'Artagnan asked in a whisper.

“We'll make him aware and he'll adapt,” Athos promised. “He's asked me to look out for you so he doesn't have to.”

Glancing up, he saw Aramis tidying up the debris they'd left by the table and absent-mindedly stroked d'Artagnan's chest but he looked down, amused, to see the Gascon shifting.

“Aroused?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan whispered back.

“Still want your own turn?”

At this d'Artagnan shivered for a moment and then laughed, a short huff of laughter.

“It depends what he does next,” d'Artagnan answered and they both chuckled.

“Really,” Athos prompted, stroking the black hair again.

“I think so. That first black thing looked good,” d'Artagnan answered, tentatively.

“Yes?” Athos murmured, invitingly.

He slowly moved his hand down, across d'Artagnan's collarbones and slipped inside his shirt. Calloused fingers found one of d'Artagnan's nipples and began to roll it back and forth, smirking at the hitch in his breathing.

“You know I want... I want to be spanked,” d'Artagnan said, closing his eyes.

“I do,” Athos said, gripping the small nub a little harder and smiling as d'Artagnan squirmed.

“The idea of being struck with... struck more than hand... It feels... more than sex,” d'Artagnan gasped, pulling against the rope when Athos twisted his nipple, harshly pushing it over the line of pleasure for a moment.

“Despite your really rather poor grammar, I understand,” Athos teased.

Aramis returned and Athos slid his hand out of d'Artagnan's shirt, smoothing it round to rest at the nape of his neck instead.

Aramis stalked closer and he could tell the moment Porthos realised how close he was. His body tensed but also seemed to strain towards Aramis' own.

“This is my choice,” he said, raising the very thin strip of metal so his friends could see it.

“What is it?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Sit up,” Aramis said, lowering to a crouch beside Porthos and helping him.

Together, they got Porthos sitting up, knees bent with soles touching again, only this time, he turned him so his side was to the sofa. He let Porthos sit still for a few seconds, stood close to him so Porthos could feel the difference in their statuses.

“I don't have a name for this,” Aramis said, answering d'Artagnan. “Porthos, however, calls it the misery stick.”

Aramis let the stick touch Porthos' hair for a moment, instantly quelling the small whimper that had escaped his so far silent man. He then settled, cross legged, in front of Porthos, stick in one hand, gag on the rug beside him.

“Hold your hands out,” he said softly.

Two trembling arms were outstretched, palms up. Porthos had named this item well. There was absolutely no pleasure in this item, just pain. Sharp, lancing, white hot pain. The only appeal in it was the submission to pain, no carnal inflection whatsoever. Having tested it on himself, Aramis found it to be like a cane only without the flex. It felt like being burned by a hot poker and slashed by a knife at the same time.

Lifting the stick and turning his hand at a slight angle, he brought it down on his lover's arm. A neat, long diagonal line appeared instantly on Porthos' darker skin and his body jerked.

“Still,” Aramis reminded, softly.

Another quick slash below it left a parallel line and Aramis was satisfied with the angle of his hand. Test shots over, he went to work.

Quick whip strikes landed up and down Porthos' inner forearm and he had to take Porthos' hand with his free one to hold the limb steady. It was trembling and jerking, not as an attempt to get away, just from reaction. Aramis held it fast and continued.

When he finally stopped and let go, Porthos cradled it protectively to his chest but stretched his other arm out, offering it up to him. Pride swelled in Aramis' chest again and he went to work.

When he was done, Porthos' arms were shaking badly as they curled protectively around his chest. Aramis was not as gentle as usual when he guided them down to Porthos' sides, using rope to bind them there.

Aramis was going after Porthos in sections, purposefully choosing areas with no eroticism for Porthos to hide behind. As he striped up and down the flesh between his shoulders and where the rope held his arms fast at the elbow, Porthos already had his lips pressed together in a hard line, trying hard to bear this for Aramis.

On and on it went, Aramis took Porthos apart, section by section, area by area. His arms had only been the beginning. Aramis positioned him, used rope to hold him, exposed each section and focused on it like the surgeon he was.

Each time Aramis gave Porthos only a minute or two reprieve, just long enough to change his position. Taking the rope off, next was laying him on his back and striping the front of his thighs, Porthos remaining in position despite the obvious pain his thrashing head implied. It was only this and the trembling in his long, muscled limbs with the clenching of his fingers and toes that gave any indication of the pain,

Next, leaving him flat on his back, Aramis spread Porthos' legs and shuffled between them. As he rested the metal stick on Porthos' inner thigh, his lover raised a shaking fist into the air.

“Good boy,” he murmured and took up the gag from his side. He leaned over Porthos' shaking form and inserted it, tying it tightly and securely. Lingering, he ran his thumb over Porthos' stretched lips and then over the pads of his blindfold.

By the time he'd covered Porthos' inner thighs with angry red lines, there were shrieks of pain coming from behind the cloth and yet still, Porthos' only movement was the jerk of his body after each strike. His neatly wrapped genitals bounced at the same time but he wasn't even trying to get hard any more. Aramis recognised the signs. Porthos was ablaze with pain and had little room for anything else.

“Hands behind your head,” Aramis murmured.

Athos watched as Porthos, shaking like a leaf complied. There was sweat covering his body, visible in the light from the fire. In previous experiences, Athos had always seen Porthos' response to pain be a guttural, visceral one like the way he roared in a fight. This high pitched whining and whimpering, though, was uncharacteristic. This was further than even Athos had seen them go. D'Artagnan was shaking slightly as well and Athos squeezed the base of his neck, steadying him.

Aramis' eyes were hard, like sparkling black gems, as he laid down strike after strike across the newly exposed skin of his inner upper arms.

“How does he do it?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Which one?”

“Porthos,” he murmured.

“He wants it,” Athos breathed.

“He's not... He's not aroused,” d'Artagnan whispered. He was breathing hard, Athos' voice in his ear.

“Well for one I'm not sure we would be able to tell,” Athos smirked. “This isn't about sex. This is about power. This is about control. This is about dominion.”

Porthos was on his stomach now, rope quickly bound around his knees and ankles. Porthos was almost wailing now as the thin metal was laid down again and again, over and over, across the backs of his thighs and calves. Athos' own cane strikes were stinging in sympathy, though he knew they were nothing compared to the feeling Porthos was having inflicted. Athos had only once before seen bondage be necessary for Porthos' submission and today was the second. His legs were attempting to jerk but a strong hand on the rope binding his ankles held him captive.

Aramis had rolled his man over and moved to Porthos' stomach, neat, quick flicks of his wrist laying line after line. It was terrible, it was frightening but it was also utterly beautiful.

Athos didn't see malice in Aramis' eyes, he saw calculation and care. Each of those wildly painful strikes was exactly placed. The soft skin of Porthos' belly was striped in angry red and purple lines, colour coming to the impact site immediately/ There was hoarse sound to the noise coming from Porthos now... As if was trying to shout but lacked the energy.

Porthos was lost. Lost beneath the waves of pain. He was no longer in control of his body. Each position needed bondage now, Porthos was utterly unable to prevent himself from jerking or trying to pull away. The weight of Aramis crouched on on his pained thighs was the only thing stopping him from flailing in pain. He howled in agony as the stick moved higher, slashing across his chest, less flesh meaning less absorption. He could feel the pads over his eyes growing wet as his tears fell. He sobbed loudly at the realisation but another pained howl was dragged from him when the stick caught a nipple.

Aramis' weight left his body and firm hands rolled him onto his stomach. Porthos sobbed helplessly into the rug as the weight returned to his calves. Pain flared, hot and wild, across his already bruised buttocks but Porthos just continued to cry. He felt flayed, emotionally rather than physically. He had nothing left to hide and every single reaction he had was truth. Aramis' truth. Porthos quieted, welcoming the searing agony landing over and over on his flesh. That dark crawling feeling was in his stomach again, seeking the pain, pulling it into himself again.

It continued.

Porthos began to cry again, Aramis going above and beyond where Porthos wanted the pain. He was losing himself again as the blows landed again and again. Pain flared up and down, left and right, it was cold, it was hot, it was a slice, a slash, a burn, a cut. Aramis wasn't moving any more. He was focused, settled on the flesh of Porthos' buttocks.

Porthos was unable to keep quiet, giving in to the pain Aramis wanted, giving into the bondage he'd provided for Porthos. Each strike elicited a helpless wail of agony but the gag he'd asked for stopped the noise, making it cycle down, back into his body. It felt like the pain's only outlet was out through the marks Aramis was laying down.

Just as d'Artagnan was beginning grow uncomfortable with the volume of Porthos' muffled voice, almost screaming now, the thin metal stick clattered to the floor as Aramis tossed it carelessly to the side.

Aramis' hands roughly turned Porthos over and his mouth crashed down on Porthos' as the marksman shifted a little before falling forward, covering his lover's body with his own. There was a loud whine and d'Artagnan watched as Porthos tried to kiss back, his mouth stretched and filled by the gag. Aramis' hands clamped on Porthos' upturned arms and d'Artagnan's breath quickened at the pained noise, swallowed by the cloth and Aramis' own mouth.

The grip on the back of his own neck tightened a little and arousal shot through him as one of Aramis' knees pressed up between Porthos' legs. He could see Aramis grinding Porthos' bound genitals and found himself straining forward to imagine what real bondage felt like.

“Maybe it is a little about sex,” Athos murmured in his ear.

D'Artagnan watched, hypnotised as Aramis knelt up and ran his hands over Porthos' body. He seemed not to care whether he pressed against the untouched skin on top of his forearms or the lined and painful skin of his upper arms. They roamed possessively, hungrily, across the still shaking body and d'Artagnan found himself panting as Porthos shifted in pain at the random touches.

Just as suddenly as he'd started, Aramis stopped, pressing his forehead against Porthos' and the two of them panted in unison. One more swift kiss and Aramis was upright on his knees again, smirking at d'Artagnan and Athos.

“Magnificent, isn't he?” he said, triumph and pride shining on his sweat covered face.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops - a day late... Sorry :)

“Yes,” breathed d'Artagnan.

“Always,” Athos murmured quietly.

Aramis stood, graceful as ever, and turned to the armchair behind him. He gathered up the blanket and another length of rope and returned to Porthos who had started shivering violently, still on his back.

“I'm here, mi vida,” Aramis crooned, gentle hands now guiding his body. “Onto your side.”

D'Artagnan recognised an adrenaline crash when he saw one. He'd had several when he first began training with edged blades as a child when death and injury became a reality.

Aramis first cut away the rope still banded around Porthos' torso. He then checked the ropes binding Porthos' knees and ankles together before moving to bind his wrists. He nudged Porthos to curl slightly until he looked comfortable and then joined his wrists to his knees, forcing Porthos to remain in a loose ball. A blanket was draped over him but neither gag nor blindfold were removed. Aramis sat cross legged, sliding his still clothed thigh beneath Porthos' head.

“No drink?” d'Artagnan asked, having seen Aramis keep people well hydrated.

“Not yet. He's not ready,” Aramis answered, toying lightly with Porthos' hair while his other stroked firmly up and down the blanket covered form.

D'Artagnan could still see faint tremors rippling through the large body beneath the blanket and understood.

“Can I have a drink?” he asked, glancing up.

Athos smiled and leaned down to retrieve the skin he'd used earlier and held it to d'Artagnan's lips. He drank thirstily and settled down to nuzzle at Athos' knee.

A comfortable silence had fallen over the room and Aramis had reclined back on the floor, one hand resting on the curve of Porthos' blanket covered back and the other behind his own head. There was a soft rumble to Porthos' breathing that made d'Artagnan think he might be asleep.

He shifted slightly, his buttocks slightly numb, and twisted his wrists. After this long, the novelty had worn off his bondage and without anything else to focus on, his shoulders were beginning to ache.

“Athos,” he whispered. “Can we undo me now?”

The older man smiled and settled beside him on his knees.

“Would you do it again?” he asked, leaning around d'Artagnan to undo the rope.

The Gascon thought about it as the rope came free and he looked at his wrists when Athos brought them up for examination.

“I don't think I'll need it again,” he said finally. “I get it now.”

“What do you mean?” Athos asked, gently tugging d'Artagnan to his feet.

“The big thing was to feel safe and secure while being shown something potentially upsetting,” d'Artagnan explained, following Athos to the sofa and settling between his legs. “I might be naïve but I don't know that I'll ever see it go that far again and even if I did, I'm OK.”

“How you amaze me,” Athos said, softly.

D'Artagnan blinked in surprise.

“I underestimate you so often,” the older man murmured. “I still see you as my puppy. The over-eager, headstrong fool that stalked in to the yard to take on an unknown foe.”

D'Artagnan blushed and didn't answer and Athos chuckled warmly in his ear.

“I believe you were always a fine young man but in the short time I've known you, I've seen you meet and address things that make even old men like me balk.”

“Flatterer,” d'Artagnan mumbled, embarrassed.

“It's deserved,” Athos murmured.

The two of them fell silent and Athos felt d'Artagnan's body go heavy against his, the serene atmosphere in the room getting to him as well. Athos smiled, thinking to himself how similar the four of them were.

  
  


  
  


Long minutes later, d'Artagnan moved in his arms and Athos opened his eyes, unsure if he'd actually slept or simply daydreamed.

“How are you feeling?” the Gascon asked, quietly.

Athos fidgeted a little, his still sore backside and legs rubbing against the mercifully soft sofa. He kissed into the still dusty and sweaty black hair.

“Very sore. I might be a bit bruised in the morning but I can't tell yet,” Athos answered.

“He's like a surgeon,” d'Artagnan whispered.

“He is our medic, is he not?” Athos teased, following d'Artagnan's gaze to the men on the floor. It appeared Aramis had also fallen into a light sleep, laying back on the floor with Porthos' head still on his thigh.

“I know but he does this to Porthos regularly, has gone further than this even, and none of you have ever been unable to your duty?”

“Tréville would kill us.”

D'Artagnan laughed and bumped his head back against Athos' chest playfully.

“You know what I mean. You're never sore and aching the next day.”

“Oh we are,” Athos said, laughing.

The Gascon smiled, always warmed when Athos laughed like that, unguarded. It always seemed he was years younger than the ancient old man he pretended to be.

“Do you think we should take the gag out since Aramis has fallen asleep?” he suggested.

“I think Aramis would break your wrist before you got your fingers to the knot,” Athos answered, smirking.

“He wouldn't,” d'Artagnan laughed. “But I suppose it would be rude.”

“Why am I being violent?” Aramis asked, sluggishly pushing himself up to his elbows.

“D'Artagnan suggested undoing some of Porthos' bondage,” Athos explained.

Aramis yawned and sat up properly, rubbing his face with one hand.

“Maybe not his wrist. A finger or two, perhaps,” he said, shrugging.

D'Artagnan grinned and relaxed back against Athos again.

“Speaking of... How's yours?” Athos said as he tightened his arms around d'Artagnan.

“Bruised. Not broken,” Aramis said, flexing the hand Athos had headbutted. “You have somewhat of a hard head.”

“I've been told,” Athos remarked drily.

D'Artagnan covered Athos' hands with his own where they rested on his belly. Of the four of them, Porthos and Athos were totally nude where d'Artagnan and Aramis remained dressed but for their bare feet.

He and Athos watched in a pleasant silence as Aramis gently roused Porthos, removing first the gag and then the blanket. There was a moment where Aramis seemed to be assessing something and then simply patted Porthos' cheek. Leaning over, the tether between his wrists and ankles came undone.

“Start to stretch, mi vida,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos hissed a little as he began to straighten his legs but quickly stifled the sound. Aramis was rubbing small circles on his back, leaning on his other hand to keep himself upright.

D'Artagnan was watching this affectionate scene placidly when Aramis addressed him.

“So I've got two down, one to go?”


	10. Chapter 10

Porthos perked up at this, making the effort to come back to awareness, his interest piqued. In the stunned silence, he completed a quick inventory of his injuries. Out of everything, it was his buttocks that hurt most, but that was to be expected and was familiar. Of the rest of his pains, his inner thighs hurt the worst with his arms a close second. Even clenching his fists made the marks on the insides of his arms throb. He kept moving his legs slowly back and forth but the muscles weren't actually all that tight. He thought of telling Aramis this but the complete darkness reminded him of Aramis' instructions and he simply listened.

“I- Uh...” d'Artagnan was stammering.

“I am only teasing,” Aramis replied. “We can leave it at a rather thorough demonstration. I see you managed to escape your bondage.”

Porthos felt a wave of submission as he realised he had no real idea where anyone was any more. Last he'd seen them, Athos had been immobile on the sofa, laid out after Aramis' display. D'Artagnan had been sat on the floor, tied to it. His mind raced. The latter had clearly been released but not by Aramis. That means Athos must have moved as well. But to where? Were they still looking at him? Did they see the stripes he was sure were on his thighs? Were they looking at his soft, bundled up genitals?

The rubbing circles on his shoulder stopped and Aramis' hands helped him sit up. There was a movement of air around him and Aramis was undoing his ankles and wrists.

“Let me see,” came a murmured instruction.

Porthos complied and sat passively while Aramis held first one arm, then the other, out at different angles, ran his fingers over Porthos' belly and pressed harshly into the stripes on his inner thighs. He was aware his limbs were shaking and when the rope returned, binding his wrists together again, he felt immensely grateful. However interested he was to see d'Artagnan's reactions, Porthos wasn't quite up to being completely back yet.

The fingers turned soft and they stroked Porthos' face, ghosting across the blindfold, tracing around his mouth, running along what must be lines left by the gag at the corners of his mouth. They slipped inside his mouth for a moment and then disappeared. Aramis' water skin replaced it and Porthos drank greedily. Still blind, he was moved back to the floor, on his stomach this time. He stifled a moan when Aramis' quick, clever fingers assessed the marks on his buttocks. Porthos was now unable to identify more than one or two particular marks left, the rest blurring into an awful mass of wonderful pain. His face was turned sideways, back onto Aramis' thigh and a hand held him gently, but firmly, in place.

“I don't... I'm not ready for...”

“I'm well aware how to cater for individual guests,” Aramis' voice said gently.

Porthos found himself surprisingly content to listen while blind this time. The fog was falling away and he was increasingly alert but yet the discomfort and nerves that usually came with the blindfold when he wasn't otherwise influenced by his 'fog' weren't reasserting themselves at all.

“So what would you... be offering?” d'Artagnan asked and his voice sounded high and nervous.

“Maybe you could simply try out one or two of the things you've seen today?” Aramis' voice suggested.

There was some quiet whispering and Aramis' thumb brushed over Porthos' neck, making him smile. Not only was the affection welcome but he knew it was Aramis giving d'Artagnan the privacy to consult with Athos. Gentle fingers touched over the padded section of the blindfold and traced around to where the knot lay.

“Ready to come back?” he whispered.

Porthos simply smiled in reply and leaned his head towards Aramis obligingly.

“Want your voice back?”

Porthos didn't respond, surprised that he had no particularly strong feelings either way and long fingers stroked his cheeks in approval. A hand pressed over his still covered eyes as the knot came undone, the bandage falling away from the back of his head.

“How do you switch so easily from tender to harsh?” d'Artagnan asked.

“I don't need to switch when it's Porthos,” Aramis answered. “Eyes closed, mi vida.”

The padded bandage fell away from his eyes and Porthos screwed his eyes up but quicker than he could, Aramis' calloused thumbs brushed over them, smoothing out the laughter lines at the corner of his eyes.

“It's a switch for Athos but not for Porthos. It's all just different facets of us,” Aramis continued.

He took Porthos' hands and Porthos could feel him knee-walking around him. He stiffly got onto his own knees and followed the gentle pull on his bound hands, eyes still closed.

“For Athos I need to pull myself back a little as he often struggles with the need for clear, sharp pain and my affection. For Porthos, they're one and the same.” There was a pause as Aramis got to his feet and another couple of gentle tugs forwards and Porthos realised Aramis had taken his armchair with Porthos knelt between his legs. “What about you?” Aramis asked.

Porthos sighed happily and nuzzled his face into Aramis' leather covered thigh. There was more whispering while Porthos' head was lifted gently. Fingertips gently stroked up from his cheeks to his forehead, encouraging his eyes open. It was surprisingly hard to do so but the stroking fingers were constant and gradually Aramis' shirt came into view.

“Hi,” Aramis whispered.

Porthos lifted his head, blinking at the rush of light and found Aramis' smiling face.

“You can speak if you wish but I won't demand it. If you'd prefer to remain silent you can do so,” he murmured and Porthos nodded.

He turned his head to look at Athos and d'Artagnan but flinched as the bright fire caught his peripheral vision and Aramis chuckled quietly.

“Easy does it,” he murmured.

Porthos lapsed into a comfortable silence, his face resting on Aramis' thigh while d'Artagnan came to his decision.

  
  


“I think... It's... I don't like the idea of pain for pain's sake,” d'Artagnan said slowly.

They'd shifted position while Aramis had brought Porthos back and were sat side by side on the sofa, facing Aramis. Athos' hand was against the small of his back, thumb stroking insistently, grounding him.

“Oh?” Aramis asked, his eyes sparkling with interest.

D'Artagnan found he couldn't speak, even with the hand stroking him.

“Go on,” Athos urged.

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and whispered the words.

“I didn't hear you,” Aramis said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

D'Artagnan lifted his eyes, cheeks burning, and repeated it, only barely audible.

“Turns me on.”

Immediately he dropped his eyes to stare, unseeingly, at the dark head of curls on Aramis' thigh.

“That makes you more like me,” the marksman said, his voice gentle but with an unidentifiable edge to it.

D'Artagnan snapped his gaze up to Aramis and saw him staring back with that unshakeable focus of the sniper, eyes glittering with mischief.

“You like pain, too?” he whispered.

“Oh yes,” murmured Aramis, one hand lazily resting on the arm of his chair, the other stroking through Porthos' curls. “I like my Porthos to bite, I like him to scratch, to pull, to manhandle me like only he can. I've even known to like him to take me over his knee.”

D'Artagnan shivered as the images flashed through his mind. Aramis' long, lithe body stretched out. Porthos' broad hand striking him. D'Artagnan's own body, draped over a knee, his bottom exposed, a hand, that black paddle. Would his skin turn pink like Porthos'? Would it be more vibrant as his skin was a little lighter?

“Puppy,” breathed Athos and d'Artagnan shook himself.

“If you aren't sure-” Aramis began but d'Artagnan quickly cut him off.

“I am. I'm sure,” d'Artagnan said and suddenly found himself on his feet.

Aramis rose to his feet and while they were of comparative height, the slow way Aramis rose, graceful as ever, was far more impressive. This may have been because Porthos turned at the same time, still kneeling at the man's feet, and without his blindfold, the smile was less placid and far more predatory.

“Stay,” Aramis commanded, a hand out to Porthos, and took two long paces until he stood right in front of d'Artagnan. “May I?” he asked, raising a hand.

D'Artagnan nodded, slightly uncertain what Aramis was asking but trusting him.

Aramis' hand rested on his shoulder, stroking up slightly to the curve of neck and shoulder.

“Close your eyes,” Aramis whispered but it wasn't an instruction; it was a gentle suggestion. D'Artagnan shook his head and Aramis smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the refusal.

Aramis' hand stroked back down, over the curve of his shoulder, down his arm and his fingers lightly ghosted over the back of d'Artagnan's hand. Their eyes never left each other.

The marksman's second hand raised and did the identical move and when it reached d'Artagnan's hand, they clasped them gently.

“How are you feeling?”

D'Artagnan laughed at the murmured question, it coming out as a slightly hysterical giggle.

“Shh,” Aramis murmured, his moustache twitching in amusement. “No need to answer. I think I understood that.”

D'Artagnan laughed again but it was less hysterical and he let his hands drop as Aramis released them.

  
  


Athos sat watching, hypnotised, as Aramis gradually calmed d'Artagnan down. Gentle hands were stroking slowly up and down the Gascon's arms, always stopping short of the long slender neck and gently clasping, squeezing and releasing, the hands at the other end.

It was like calming a horse, gradually getting d'Artagnan used to the feel of Aramis' hands and breaking down that barrier. He could see his lover's body swaying slightly under the treatment and when Aramis' eyes met Athos' own, he guessed d'Artagnan had finally closed his.

“How do you feel?” Aramis asked again.

“Better. Thank you,” d'Artagnan whispered.

“Athos, perhaps you would like to switch places with me and look after mine for a while?”

Athos nodded, smiling at the way d'Artagnan tensed slightly. He didn't like that d'Artagnan became more anxious but he couldn't deny that he felt a little reassured that d'Artagnan didn't want him to leave.

“Right here, puppy,” Athos whispered as he passed, fingers pressing briefly against the Gascon's tail bone. A small sigh escaped their youngest member and Athos proceeded past. His eye alighted upon the small black leather paddle and he paused to collect it, placed it on the sofa, and settled in Aramis' armchair where Porthos was still kneeling, watching his Master avidly.

He clasped Porthos' shoulder briefly and, hesitating a moment, took a second to cradle his face with one hand. Porthos glanced up uncertainly for a moment but then his eyes fluttered closed. A second later they opened again and they shared a small smile. Athos turned him gently and encouraged him to rest again Athos' legs for comfort and together they turned their attention to their lovers.

D'Artagnan shivered as Aramis' hands stroked higher, long fingers curled loosely around the back of his neck and they stilled.

“What's the plan?” d'Artagnan asked in a whisper.

“That depends on you,” Aramis murmured. “For your first time I would rather not have to fight you but I will if you prefer.”

D'Artagnan shook his head without opening his eyes.

“I trust you.”

“Good,” Aramis said, one hand remaining on the back of his neck, one trailing down to take his hand. “If you want to stop or change anything I'm doing, just let me know. If you're certain about not wishing to fight me then I will stop or pause as soon as you ask me to or if I feel you're becoming uncomfortable.”

“What if I-” d'Artagnan started but stopped as Aramis guided him to sit on the sofa.

“What if you what?” Aramis asked, keeping his hand on the back of d'Artagnan's neck.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes and he sighed softly, reassured by the gentle, open expression on his friend's face.

“What if I don't calm down?”

“Then we're on the wrong track,” Aramis answered honestly. “You don't _have_ to like it, you know.”

D'Artagnan laughed nervously and the rough thumb stroked across the back of his neck.

“I think you will,” Aramis said, smiling indulgently. “I just mean that if you don't settle because you aren't enjoying it then we'll simply stop.” There was a pause and something seemed to shift in Aramis' eyes. “We'll find something else to do instead.”

The words shot straight to d'Artagnan's groin. His arousal had been simmering all afternoon and now he found it pooling, hot and eager, in his belly. His eyes flickered to Athos and Porthos who were both watching, eyes alive with interest, and back to Aramis who was still watching him steadily.

“OK,” he murmured hoarsely.

“I think you're a little over dressed,” Aramis said, both of his hands now settling on d'Artagnan's waist and gently teasing his shirt up.

Not entirely complicit in what he was doing, the Gascon raised his arms and allowed Aramis to draw his shirt off, dropping it on the floor casually. D'Artagnan became dimly aware that he was panting as Aramis' fingers traced the leather of his breeches.

“I think these should come off, too,” Aramis murmured.

D'Artagnan's face was hot, glowing with embarrassment as he stood shakily and let Aramis undo the laces on his breeches. There was a pause as Aramis' hands fluttered over the laces of his linens in question but d'Artagnan was beyond words and it was Athos who spoke.

“Perhaps as you do for me,” he suggested.

Unsure what Athos meant, d'Artagnan stood stock still as the laces on his under clothes came undone but only the leather of his breeches was pushed gently down, over his hips. He was breathless as he stepped out of them, simultaneously relived and, embarrassingly, disappointed that his underwear remained in place.

“Come,” Aramis murmured, a hand tugging him round.

This was it. This was it. It was really happening. Oh God. It was. It was happening.

D'Artagnan's thoughts were a wild chorus, his blood pounding deafeningly in his ears as he was guided down, over Aramis' lap. There was a small amount of adjustment until his feet and hands touched the floor each side.

“My my,” Aramis murmured, his leg bouncing beneath d'Artagnan's body. “Either you have a knife concealed about your body or you're enjoying this already.”

D'Artagnan gasped a little as he realised his stiff, hard cock was pressed painfully between his own body and Aramis' still clothed thigh. The noise turned into a slight whimper as he felt the cloth of his braies being pulled down over his upturned buttocks, exposing them to both the air and the six hungry eyes in the room.

He flinched dramatically, his entire body twitching, as Aramis' now familiar hand began to stroke his back soothingly. Each pass stopped just shy of the rounding of his flesh. He'd been positioned facing the fire, not his brothers, and just like he couldn't decide about being exposed, he wasn't sure if he felt pleased to be so on display.

Aramis' hand smoothed down, over the raised bottom, and d'Artagnan trembled, whether with fear or excitement, he still didn't know. Aramis' hand suddenly came down on the centre of one cheek, leaving a stinging pain in its wake.

Excitement it was, then.

D'Artagnan's hard length gave an angry throb where it was trapped and he wriggled as arousal throbbed through him.

“We definitely like it?” Aramis hummed and d'Artagnan laughed where he lay.

“Seems so,” he answered.

“Oh good,” Aramis purred and brought his hand down again.

D'Artagnan jerked in surprise, not having quite realised the previous had been a taster. Another slap landed on the opposite cheek and Aramis resumed his slow smooth strokes, seemingly stroking the sting away and leaving just warmth.

“OK?” Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan nodded breathlessly and his body jerked again at another strike. Aramis' free hand came up to lay between d'Artagnan's shoulder blades. It wasn't a restraining hand and it wasn't quite the stroking hand he'd been expecting. It was grounding, reassuring and yet a gentle reminder to stay still.

Athos licked his lips, meeting Aramis' eyes, as the hand descended on the tanned, firm buttocks. He had one hand on Porthos' shoulder, keeping him grounded where he knelt but they both watched in enraptured silence as Aramis began to strike regularly. Firm, loud slaps in the silent room that made d'Artagnan's body jerk in surprise each time.

After several minutes of this, during which Athos had been unable to resist idly handling his own arousal, Aramis stopped and simply stroked the pinked flesh.

“Athos is touching himself, d'Artagnan,” Aramis purred, locking eyes with the Musketeer across the room. “I think if Porthos could, he would be, too.”

D'Artagnan's small gasp was almost too much to bear and Athos had to bite his lip to stop himself groaning.

“Would you be touching yourself if you could,” Aramis asked, his hand firm as it stroked across the tender flesh.

“Yes,” d'Artagnan gasped. “Goodness yes!”

Athos had to grip himself hard at the desperation in his lover's voice. That soft, needy whine he knew so well.

“I think ten with this then,” Aramis murmured as he took up the small leather paddle. Transferring it to his active hand, Aramis returned his free one to d'Artagnan's back and Athos knew from experience it would be a little firmer this time, more restraining than before. “Then we will unleash Athos on you.”

D'Artagnan shivered at the sheer mention of Athos' name and this time the Musketeer couldn't stay silent.

“My good boy,” he groaned quietly, just loud enough for d'Artagnan to hear.

Porthos grinned wolfishly up at him and Athos grinned back briefly before fixing his eyes on the glowing cheeks he knew so well. He longed to dig his fingers in to the muscle, to feel the warmth under his hands, hear his lover gasp, press into him, warm flesh against his own thighs.

The first strike drew a long, filthy moan out of d'Artagnan's mouth and Aramis raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I think we have a winner,” he noted silkily.

D'Artagnan whimpered in embarrassment but when the second blow landed on the other cheek, another loud desirous moan sounded in the room. Aramis chuckled darkly and Athos found himself leaning dangerously far forwards in his chair. Porthos' hand held his ankle, keeping him in his seat while Aramis landed another two blows on each cheek.

They watched as d'Artagnan began to writhe on Aramis' lap and Athos, knowing the Gascon so well, could tell he was rutting against the leather of Aramis' breeches.

“Only four to go,” Aramis said quietly. “Want to try a little harder to finish?”

“Oh yes,” d'Artagnan moaned. “Yes please.”

“Such lovely manners,” Aramis remarked before bringing the leather down with a loud thwack.

Athos watched avidly as d'Artagnan reared up slightly, Aramis' hand having to keep him steady. There was no denying the motion of his hips any more, though. Not to anyone.

“Oh you really do love this,” Aramis said, his voice low and dangerous. “I can feel you on my thigh.”

D'Artagnan whimpered and his body stilled, trembling slightly.

Another loud slap sounded as Aramis, ever the symmetrical artist, brought a matching blow down on the other cheek.

“Two more and then you're Athos' to do with as he will,” Aramis reminded the shaking d'Artagnan and Athos' cock throbbed again seeing the eager nodding.

“I call this the sweet spot,” Aramis announced before bringing the paddle down again.

Athos winced in sympathy as the paddle struck where buttock met thigh in the cold untouched crease of flesh and d'Artagnan shook slightly. The hand let go of his ankle and Athos slid to his knees, his own legs and buttocks throbbing in sympathy as the still fresh cane strikes were compressed. Silently, he approached and Aramis smirked, bringing the paddle down on d'Artagnan's opposite so-called sweet spot, wringing a last sound from the man, this time an unadulterated groan of sheer want.

“Mine now,” Athos growled, arms wrapping around d'Artagnan's bare waist and drawing him off Aramis' lap and on to the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts and requests always welcome at kitacularao3 at gmaildotcom :)


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